Moments of Grace: Jones
by Parlanchina
Summary: There's a new Agent in town and she's looking for trouble. Well, not actually looking as such. More sort of regularly failing to avoid it, really. As the team head to New Orleans to catch a killer and Dr Reid battles his personal demons, SSA Grace Pearce is just setting out on her new life. It couldn't really be more eventful than her old one, could it? AU, mostly canon, OC.
1. Flight of Fancy

**Chapter 1: Flight of Fancy**

**This is more of an experiment than anything else, a rewrite of the episode 'Jones' with my OC thrown in for good measure. If you don't want to read it, then don't. If you do, then please review **

**Seriously, are you kidding? Much as I'd love to be part of Criminal Minds, I'm not – hence the whole fanfiction thing. Also, I have no money, so please don't sue me. I only own Agent Pearce, and she doesn't always do what I want her to.**

**0o0**

**Essential listening: Dracula from Houston, by the Butthole Surfers**

0o0

It was another of those '_how did I end up here?_' days.

Her first connection had been cancelled, leaving her camping on the concrete and linoleum floor of a particularly grotty Irish airport for nine, excruciating hours. Her book – in the way of all useful items on long journeys – had gravitated to the very bottom of her carry-on luggage, and when she'd finally made it onto the plane she'd found herself crammed in between an excessively chatty woman and a large, uncomfortable looking man whom she had instantly mentally labelled as 'Mr Sweaty'.

She gripped the armrest slightly harder than necessary as they banked into the wind and set out towards the sunset. Had Mr Sweaty not decided that this was the moment to remember his deep-seated fear of flying, she might have reflected on the poetry of the moment. Readily switching seats so that he could be nearer the aisle, she feigned interest in the apparent promiscuity of the perky blonde next to her before the woman – apparently satisfied that her neighbours had been suitably appraised of her love-life – took out a glossy, chick-lit book and immersed herself, giggling periodically.

Relieved, Grace jammed her earphones into her ears and hit 'shuffle', watching the golden light of the setting sun glint off the waves far below them, glad that Mr Sweaty's panic attack had provided her with a window seat.

She closed her eyes and tried to relax.

While she was reasonably confident in the stroke of mechanical genius that was keeping her airborne, the fact that she was hurtling across the sky at several thousand feet in what was, effectively, a large metal bucket with wires in made her a little bit nervous. She'd seen enough wreck sites over the years to know that she'd probably be dead before she even knew about it, but that didn't make her feel any better. She refused to let it bother her all that much, but there was always an inevitable edge of danger in the back of her mind when she flew.

She leaned against the window, comforting herself by thinking of how many layers of glass it took to make something that strong.

It was something that she was going to have to get used to. Her new job involved a lot of air-travel, according to the agent she had spoken to the day before. It wouldn't do to freak out in front of her new colleagues.

Her old boss would have called it 'bad form'.

She smiled lightly, thinking of the old man. He had been a bit of a fruitcake, most of the time, but he knew what he was doing, and in an emergency there was no one she'd rather be three feet behind. She felt a pang of regret, leaving her old team behind, but she needed this.

She hoped her new team was just as loyal, just as idiosyncratic.

Less broken.

Her eyes had just begin to flutter closed when her seat was jolted forward, making her smack her forehead into the reinforced glass.

Annoyed, she peered around the seat at a smug looking eight year old behind her.

"Kevin, keep your feet to yourself!" a woman with more curls on her head than should be physically possible, snapped. She preened her curls before giving Grace an unconvincing apology; the woman looked far more put out with Grace than she did with her errant offspring.

Unimpressed, she glanced at the boy, whose mother had turned back to the conversation she was having with her husband, and he made an obscene gesture at her.

Grace rolled her eyes, turning back as if to settle back down; she leaned forward just in time to miss his next, jarring kick.

Taking a deep breath, she considered the length of the flight, and how much of this she still had before her.

_Kick._

She thought long and hard about the carton of juice that had been on the tray table behind her.

_Kick_.

It had been one of those sugary, colourful drinks that did nothing for the behaviour of children.

_Kick_.

Really, it wouldn't do to get in trouble even before she landed…

_Kick_.

But then, the little bastard had had three chances now…

She glanced at the perky young woman beside her; every time Kevin kicked Grace's seat, hers rocked forward a little too. She was looking back at him with the air of someone who is even now discovering the downside of anti-cruelty laws. Seeing in her an unexpected ally, she winked.

Perky flashed her a look of mild confusion, which spread into a smirk as Grace said, conversationally:

"You know, I'd love to be around when Karma catches up to this one."

She nodded at the seat behind her.

Kevin kicked her chair again, much harder this time; Grace had been ready for it, and she barely flinched.

_Good_, she thought. _He heard me_.

Perky nodded emphatically.

"Sooner or later everyone gets their come-uppance," she said, sweetly.

"Hopefully sooner," Grace added, as the pace of kicks increased.

She leaned forward again, ostensibly content to let Karma do its work; Perky went back to her book as Mr Sweaty retched and gurgled to himself at the end of the row.

Kevin continued his persecution of the seatback, changing rhythm and intensity whenever he felt like it. Beside him, his mother began to doze, her head resting on her shoulder. Grace risked a look behind her and watched, fascinated, as a tiny rivulet of dribble ran down the woman's chin and onto her powder blue dress.

She looked at Kevin, who attempted to convey – through some highly inventive hand gestures – that he had doubts as to Grace's parentage.

"Last chance," she mouthed.

He glared back, defiant, so she shrugged.

"Your choice," she mouthed. "Karma is a bitch."

She turned back and glanced out of the window: the light was dimmer now, but not by much, since they were chasing the sunset.

Carefully, she stirred the bitter aeroplane tea on the tray in front of her and fiddled with the sugar packet.

Molecules were held together, apart, or in one state or another by the most extraordinary forces. It was all one infinitely complex balancing act.

All it would take would be one little push…

There was a curious noise behind her, like a sort of squelchy 'pop'; then somebody started shrieking.

"KEVIN!" the boy's mother shouted. "You little shit! You've _ruined_ my dress!"

"But _Mum!_ It just exploded!"

She watched with interest as alarmed air hostesses converged on the blackcurrant soaked family.

"Is everything ok?" she asked, innocently, but no one paid any attention.

She met Perky's eyes as she settled back in her seat; she was looking at her in astonishment. She feigned a look of mild surprise, probably a couple of seconds too late to be credible.

"Well," she said, privately impressed at how level she was keeping her voice. "That's Karma for you."

She turned her iPod up to drown out the screams of outrage behind her and reflected that had her former boss been present, she would have been in a significant amount of trouble.

Not that he could have said anything until they were on the ground and safely out of earshot, but still.

It was something that she would have to resist over the next few weeks… she couldn't imagine it going down too well at Quantico, and she had been in trouble far too often lately.

Sipping the awful tea, she reflected on the events of the past few years and wondered when the tipping point had been. There were plenty of candidates for 'straw that broke the camel's back', ranging from the utterly soul destroying to the vaguely irritating.

Her father's death had been one, rather a horrible one, and working for the most underpaid and universally distrusted departments of the London Metropolitan Police had taken its toll. The kind of cases her old team had dealt with had not been for the faint-hearted. For a long time she had felt like she was making a difference, helping people… and then there was Simon.

That should have been enough for anyone to throw in the towel, but Grace was far too stubborn. It had taken her six months to put in for a transfer – to anywhere she could find – and another six months for something to come up. She had attended a conference on profiling at Scotland Yard a few years previously and had apparently made quite an impression on one of the speakers. He had written to her, explaining that he had seen her name on the international transfer list and wanted to offer her a job.

Grace, who had never left Britain for more than a few days in her life, and hated change in all its forms, took less than five minutes to make up her mind and call the number at the top of the letter.

Talking to her boss about it had been significantly more difficult. It had been a lot like admitting to a parent that she could no longer cope, or kicking out an old, loyal dog. Her stomach still wrenched at the way he had looked at her when she had tendered her resignation.

He was sad to see her go, she had seen that on his face, but he had wished her luck all the same.

He knew better than anyone why she needed to get away.

It had taken a depressingly short amount of time to pack up her room at the station – she had been living with the cadets since her father's death; the cottage her father had lived in had been more difficult. It held so many memories, good and bad.

She'd put it on the market with an air of finality and put her things in storage until she could find a place to stay in the States.

It had been a long time since she had taken this much of a risk on her own behalf, and she had to admit, she was beginning to enjoy it.

At the end of the row, Mr Sweaty finally finished retching and began – almost without pause – to snore. She and Perky exchanged a look of astonishment; it changed rapidly to exasperation as the thunderous grunting filled the air.

She checked her pocket-watch – a gift from her father on her twenty-first birthday: ten more hours.

Great.

_This new job had better be worth it._


	2. Wheels Up

**Chapter 2 – Wheels Up**

**Essential listening: Saturday Morning, by the Eels**

0o0

"Hey guys, you hear the juicy?"

Supervisory Special Agents Emily Prentiss and Derek Morgan exchanged a look of amused confusion as a vision in hot pink hurried towards them from the stairs.

Penelope Garcia, the FBI Behavioural Analysis Unit's resident technical sorceress didn't often venture out of her dungeon unless they were on a case, and generally if there was a case she didn't look this cheerful.

"Ok, you got my attention, beautiful," said Morgan, playfully, leaning back in his chair. "Spill."

"We're getting a new girl," she grinned, perching on the edge of a desk. "I just processed the transfer papers and information request."

"Garcia, you're sitting on the file I was reading," complained Dr Spencer Reid, irritably.

Garcia hopped off the table with a wince; their younger colleague had not been his usual happy-go-lucky self of late. It was understandable, given everything he had been through.

"Sorry sweetie," she apologised, hastily. "I was just excited."

He glanced at her, and grunted.

Garcia and Morgan shared a look. Everyone on the team was worried about Reid, and his behaviour was still deteriorating: the shy young genius had become increasingly surly, picking fights with people and often late for meetings…

He had been abducted by a serial killer with multiple personalities on a psychotic break, and had been held and tortured over several days with little hope of rescue.

It had taken an awful toll on him, and despite the team's best efforts – and those of his appointed counsellor – he was steadily getting worse.

"Wait," said Prentiss, coming to a worrying realisation. "Information request?"

"Yup," Garcia grinned, enjoying the power she wielded. "Every new team member gets a deep background check performed by yours truly."

"How deep?" Prentiss asked, clearly concerned.

"Honey," Garcia leaned forward, candidly. "I can even tell you who you went to Prom with."

Prentiss paled and grimaced.

"Geoffrey Stevens? Oh God…"

"Sarah Rawlings," Morgan said, with pleasure. "She was smokin' hot."

"Tommy York," said Garcia, fondly. "We were best friends."

"What about you, Pretty Boy?" Morgan asked, throwing a rolled up ball of paper at Reid.

"I was twelve," he said, not looking up. "I didn't go."

His colleagues shared a look of surprise and sadness. He seemed to have missed out on a lot, growing up a genius.

They were saved further comment, however, by the arrival of Agent Jennifer Jareau, their Media Liaison, who hurried by with a stack of files and a grim expression.

"Situation room, guys," she called out, as she passed by.

They followed her with resignation – they knew that look.

0o0

"Before we start," said SSA Aaron Hotchner as they made themselves comfortable. "As some of you are aware –" he shot an amused glance at Garcia's retreating back in the bullpen. " – we're going to have a new face around here soon. Agent Pearce will be joining us from Scotland Yard."

"A _British_ agent?" asked Morgan, interested.

"Oh, _please_ don't start with the James Bond jokes," Prentiss begged.

"She was supposed to start today," said Hotch, ignoring them. "But her flight was cancelled." He looked up. "Gideon, you've met her, can you tell us any more about her?"

SSA Jason Gideon, sitting apart from the main table, shrugged.

"I met her once, after a lecture I gave three years ago," he said, in mild amusement. "She's friendly, inquisitive, good at her job, British…" He made an expansive gesture with his hands. "…odd sense of humour. You'll all meet her by the end of the day," he finished. "JJ, what have we got?"

"We've got a serial killer in New Orleans who killed at least three men pre-Katrina – until now the New Orleans Police Department believed the serial killer died in the storm."

"And what's happened to tell them otherwise?" asked Morgan, suddenly all business.

JJ turned and clicked on the screen behind her; she brought up the image of a bloody corpse.

"A fourth body was found in the French Quarter last night – same M.O.: another male, throat slashed, eviscerated."

Emily frowned at the bloody image on the screen.

"A year and a half, that's a long cooling off period," she said. "Are we sure this is the same UnSub?"

JJ nodded.

"He claims to be – sent a letter to William LaMontagne, the lead detective on the case.

"LaMontagne have any leads?" Gideon asked, leaning forwards, interested.

"He died in Katrina," said JJ, heavily. "His son is actually heading the case now."

"Mmm," hummed Morgan, sadly. "That can't be easy."

There was a murmur of agreement from around the room.

"Well, we need to pore over the evidence from the first three murders and determine a pattern," said Hotch.

"Katrina washed away everything," said JJ, shaking her head. "The three victims we know of, their autopsy reports, witness statements, DNA test results…"

The assembled agents stared at her.

Reid, who had been silently fiddling with his pen through the meeting, looked up.

"So basically all we have to go off is the latest victim?" he asked.

JJ nodded, aware of just how much fun the next few days were not going to be.

"Until he kills again," said Hotch; the team exchanged meaningful looks. "Wheels up in thirty," he said, gathering up the sparse files in front of him. "JJ, would you call Agent Pearce and have her meet us in New Orleans?" he asked, as everyone began to make a move.

"Sure," she nodded. "I'll have Garcia book her a connecting flight."

She hurried away, reflecting that Agent Pearce had chosen a hell of a case to start on.

0o0o0o0

_**Tragedy is a tool for the living to gain wisdom, not a guide by which to live**_** – Robert Kennedy.**

The mood was pensive in the jet, everyone busily reviewing what little evidence they had or musing on the difficult and unpleasant task ahead. A few of them were lost in thought, none more so than Dr Reid, who was staring at the seat across from him, in his own world.

Morgan was watching him as surreptitiously as he could across the top of his case file, concerned at his friend's uncustomary stillness.

"Hey Reid," he said, after a few minutes of scrutiny. "What's going on up there?"

"I was just thinking of this old friend of mine from Las Vegas, Ethan," he said, not even looking up. "Pretty sure he lives in New Orleans now."

"Really?" said Morgan, with a slight smile, glad that his friend could still think about things beside his recent trauma again. "Gonna give him a call?"

"We grew up competing against one another in absolutely everything," said Reid, ignoring the question. "Spelling Bees, science fairs… we also both had our hearts set on joining the Bureau, but…" Reid frowned. "First day at Quantico he backed out."

"He probably just couldn't take the heat," said Emily, with a smile.

Reid looked over at her, an unreadable expression on his face and her smile faded.

"It's not really for us to judge, is it?" he said, turning back to his staring contest with the other side of the jet.

"Right," said Emily, uncomfortably. "My bad."

There was a pause as the jet's occupants exchanged worried looks. In many ways, the team was like a family, and it was unsettling to have their resident genius acting out, getting paler and more withdrawn by the day. They had come so close to losing him and it horrified them that it was happening all over again, bit by bit, right in front of them.

He seemed to be trying to convince himself that nothing had changed, but they all knew him better. Between themselves and to their superiors they were maintaining a united front of careful unconcern, but privately they all had their suspicions about his continued tardiness, increasingly bad manners and lack of appetite.

None of them had called him on it, each hoping that he would come to them if he needed them, trying to afford him the privacy he needed to get back on his feet.

Hotch and Gideon exchanged dark looks.

Between them they had seen too many agents lose themselves in this job – get torn apart inside like Elle – and they didn't want that for their young friend. They knew that one of them would have to speak to Reid – and soon. It was a conversation that might very well mean the end of Reid's career, and as the weeks had passed both men had been studiously putting it off.

"These are copies of the newspaper articles on the murders dating back to early August 2005," said JJ, briskly bringing them back to the present. She handed a sheaf of papers to each of the five agents. "That's all we have to go on."

Hotch quickly reviewed the items.

"He killed three times, he stopped for eighteen months, then he started killing again."

"We should have Garcia run a list of any offenders in the area," said Gideon, as JJ sat back down. "Anyone who spent the last year and a half doing time."

"Or anyone that relocated after Katrina and recently moved back," suggested Reid. Gideon nodded.

"What is the victimology in killing a mechanic, a real-estate broker and a cook?" Emily mused aloud. "With ages ranging from twenty-two to forty-five?"

"And this latest is a thirty-three year old taxi driver," JJ added, thoughtfully. "They just don't seem to have very much in common."

"Besides bein' male and walkin' in the French Quarter late at night," agreed Morgan.

"Which is notorious for muggings off the main drag," JJ observed.

"Yeah," said Emily, poring over the file in front of her. "But this guy isn't in a rush to flee the scene. A slaughter like this takes time."

"Andrei Chikatilo fantasised that the men he killed were his captives and that torturing and mutilating them somehow made him a hero," said Reid.

"This city's barely back to life," said Gideon, pensively. "Something like this could cripple its psyche."

"So, where do we start?" asked JJ.

"Well, with no case file there's only one place we _can_ start," said Hotch, looking up. "Square one."

0o0

The murder scene was swarming with police and CSUs, they filled the decrepit back alley like ants following a trail – only here it was blood and not honey.

A handsome young detective was peering down at the bloodstained pavement that confirmed the reappearance of his late father's nemesis, ignoring the rising stench of the garbage that filled the alley in the humid afternoon.

"You must be B.A.U.," he drawled as JJ, Gideon and Morgan ducked under the tape. He held out a hand for JJ to shake. "Bill Lamontagne."

"Hi," said JJ, taking his hand. "Jennifer Jareau – we spoke on the phone."

Lamontagne paused, momentarily distracted from the grim work ahead of him.

"Well, ok then," he said, a smile sliding up one side of his face. "Pictured you different," he continued.

"Uh, these are agents Gideon and Morgan," said JJ, recovering herself as the men nodded at one another. "This is Detective Lamontagne Junior."

"I appreciate you guys bein' here," he said, shaking Gideon's hand. "My Daddy was too stubborn to ask for any help."

"Sorry for your loss," said Gideon, and Lamontagne nodded. "I understand you received a letter," he continued, after a polite pause.

"Yeah," said Detective Lamontagne. " 'fore they were lost in Katrina my Daddy had two others," he explained, handing over the evidence packet. "This one came addressed to him yesterday, and they passed it on to me."

"Are you sure it's from the same killer?" JJ asked, as Gideon scanned the page.

"It's a detailed account of what he did to the body," said Gideon heavily.

0o0

"Four layers of fatty tissue sliced through like butter," said the coroner, lifting the sheet on the latest victim. "I only seen that three other times."

Reid and Prentiss stared down at the corpse in front of them thoughtfully. It was much cooler in the morgue than on the street, and they were both glad to have been assigned here first. There was a big difference between New Orleans and Washington DC in July and it was good to have a little time to acclimatise, despite the unenviable task of viewing the body.

"You worked this case initially?" Reid asked.

"Yeah. You don' forget victims like this," the man drawled. "It's like they were dissected."

"I can still smell the alcohol on him," said Emily, in mild disgust.

"This _is_ New Orleans," said the coroner, lightly. "Dead or alive, it's a smell you get used to."

"Hmm," said Reid, peering closer. "The victim has no defence wounds, meaning this was most likely a blitz attack…" he joined Emily at the far side of the autopsy table. "No hesitation marks, rapid thrusts… the cuts are methodical, almost procedural…"

"My guess: whoever gutted this guy was taught to," said the coroner.

"So you think he might have some medical training?" asked Emily, looking up.

The man nodded.

"How else could he carve around every organ and leave each one in-tact?"

Emily nodded, thoughtfully.

"Have any of his relatives come to claim the body?" she asked. "Anyone we could speak with?"

"No, I'll end up boxin' up the poor bastard's ashes, left to collect dust in storage," said the coroner, heavily. "All the bodies I been through in the last year and a half it's a wonder I still have room."

Emily nodded in sympathy, wondering why this comment, of all things, should make Reid avoid her eyes.

0o0

Activity in the alley was calming down now, as evidence was collected and recorded, and the day wore on.

"It'd be pretty easy to hide out in one of these alcoves, waiting for the victim without ever bein' seen," said Morgan, having a good look around.

"Yeah," said Detective Lamontagne. "All four murders occur within a ten-block radius, right here inside the French Quarter."

"On any given night there must be thousands of people walking through here from the bars," said JJ, joining them.

"Tens of thousands, Lamontagne agreed. "When I first started as a cop I worked the Quarter. It was like being in the riot squad every night. Every Sunday I'd get off work around sunrise, ready to pass out – my Daddy be waitin' for me at my house, make me drive him up-town to Frankie and Johnnie's for breakfast – po' boys." He grinned. "Called it communin' with New Orleans."

"Your father tell you anything else about this case that we should know?" Gideon asked.

"He tried to," said Lamontagne. "But you guys should see that for yourself."

He nodded for them to follow him to a nearby SUV and climbed inside, clicking the air-conditioning on.

0o0

Detective Lamontagne drove them through the ruins of a residential neighbourhood, a grim expression on his face. The three agents stared out at the devastation around them, silenced by the level of destruction. He stepped out of the car and waited for them at the gate of what used to be a house, the fences standing in defiance of the storm, the flood and (apparently) the laws of physics.

"In here," he said, as they joined him.

"That roof safe?" asked Morgan, looking dubious.

"Safe enough." Lamontagne led them into the ruin, his face set. "This wall's still standing, where Daddy carved the message – right before he died."

He pointed at a wall in what had once been his father's study. Near the base of it, scored into the plaster, were five jagged letters. Detective Lamontagne's father's final message on the Earth.

"There's no doubt he's still working from the grave," said Lamontagne, quietly.

" 'Jones'," said Morgan. "That name mean anythin' to you?"

"No… I ran it through the database against every offender in New Orleans – and you can imagine how many hits I got," he sighed. "But nothin' came up in connection with this case."

"But in your Dad's final moments it was the most important thing he wanted to say," said JJ, staring at the carved letters.

Lamontagne stared around, despondent.

"I learned how to play the drums in this house," he said, kicking away some of the debris. "Grew up with two dogs in this house. All it's goin' to be now is the word 'Jones' carved into that wall."

"Detective," said Morgan, fairly. "If he had written the UnSub's name I think you would have found him by now. Jones is the one piece of the puzzle that your Daddy _did_ know – he trusted you to figure out the rest."

"Yeah, I know it," said Lamontagne, unhappily. It was clear that he felt his failure to catch the French Quarter killer had let his father down. "But I pored over it a thousand times and I still can't put it together." He stared back at the carving, morose. "I can't get it out of my head."

Morgan nodded in understanding and looked away, uncomfortable.

"Eats at me every day," Lamontagne continued, to himself.

"You ok?" asked JJ, crossing over to him.

"Yeah," said Lamontagne, distractedly. "I just don't wanna disappoint him."

0o0

The sudden change in destination upon arrival in Virginia had come as a bit of a surprise to Grace, who had just discovered that – on top of the journey's many other annoyances – the airline had lost the majority of her luggage.

Glad that she'd packed a couple of spare sets of clothes in her carry on bag she wandered into the arrivals hall clutching a form that she could fill in to register her complaint and harbouring a bit of a bad temper.

There was a well-dressed and expressionless young man waiting for her at the gate with the details of her next flight and a slim file with some unpleasantly graphic photographs in.

She gave him a weary grimace of thanks as he waved her off towards a private flight (apparently the F.B.I. could afford to travel in style) and settled down to read the file. It took a worryingly short amount of time, given that this killer had now claimed four lives. She looked it over again to make sure she hadn't missed anything.

She was still staring at the careful evisceration of the second victim when a cheerful chirruping sound interrupted her thoughts.

Glad of the excuse not to have that particular image burned on the inside of her retina for the rest of her day she looked around, finally spotting a netbook that looked like it had been made a part of the table beside her.

Intrigued, she opened it.

A woman's face popped into life as the screen flickered on, and she grinned at Grace, waving cheerily.

"Hello mortal!" the apparition proclaimed, and Grace's eyebrows disappeared behind her fringe. "I'm glad Anderson found you ok – we were a bit worried, what with all the changes and connections and what-not – but you're here now – that is to say, _there_, so yay! Welcome to America!"

Grace glanced around the empty jet, suddenly struck by the absurd notion that this was some kind of practical joke, a hazing for the new agent…

"Um, hi," she said, uncertainly. "I'm –"

"SSA Grace Pearce, I know," said the woman. "I'm Penelope – but my friends call me Garcia," she paused for a moment and appeared to consider this. "Or 'awesome'."

Grace smiled, unable to stop herself. This slightly mad woman's enthusiasm was infectious, and if she served as an example of the rest of the team then the rest of the day was going to be a hoot.

Or at least as much of a hoot as chasing serial killers could be.

"Pleased to meet you," she said. "So Garcia, how much do you know about me?"

If possible, Garcia's grin widened.

"Pretty much anything that's ever been written down, sugar," she beamed and hit a few keys. "Two degrees in forensic archaeology and criminology, completed simultaneously – you'll give our resident genius a run for his money, that's for sure."

Grace had been about to ask about that, but Garcia went on, barely pausing for breath.

"A distinguished career with the London Metropolitan Police and CID, where you specialised in the weird and wonderful, including serial UnSubs and crimes involving the occult."

Grace schooled her features into polite admiration at that, wondering how much detail those particular files went into.

"There were a couple of sealed files, but I resisted the temptation since I'd not met you."

"Thanks," said Grace, with a chuckle, greatly relieved. She had wanted a clean slate with this team, and could imagine exactly what information had been sealed away from public record. "Remind me not to piss you off."

"Perish the thought, my lovely."

The two women grinned at one another.

"Now," said Garcia, tapping away at the keyboard once more. "There's not a lot of data on this case yet – the file you have there is pretty much it. You'll be meeting the gang at the station house in New Orleans – I've sent the details to your P.D.A. –"

Grace frowned, but again Garcia continued before she could interrupt.

" – which is in the cupboard at the back of the jet with your cell phone and badge. Everyone's numbers are programmed in."

"You know, back in my old department that would have taken months to arrange," Grace observed with admiration.

"That's because they don't have me," stated Garcia, matter-of-factly.

"I can believe it," said Grace. She smiled as a thought struck her. "I don't suppose I could be massively cheeky and ask for a huge favour…"


	3. Down to Business

**Chapter 3 – Down to Business**

**Essential listening: What's Up?, 4 Non Blondes**

0o0

The heat hit her like a wall of stickiness as she left the air-conditioned airport, making absent small talk with the taxi driver and fiddling with her brand new P.D.A.. She had been so grateful to Garcia for agreeing to hunt down her missing luggage that she hadn't quite been able to admit that she'd never used one before.

Although her old department had technically been a part of CID and therefore entitled to equipment such as laptops and P.D.A.s the unit as a whole had been defiantly technophobic.

She'd managed to get the address of the French Quarter police department however, and present it to the driver. She shifted in her seat, uncomfortably warm in the rumpled suit she'd changed into on the jet, unsettled by all the traffic dashing past on entirely the wrong side of the car.

They got to the station in one piece, however, and Grace watched the taxi speed away, glad that she'd had the foresight to pack both her American currency and a couple of changes of clothes in her backpack.

Taking a deep breath, she strode into the building, trying not to be thrown by the heady morass of new accents that made up the noisy bustle of a busy city police station.

She flashed her new badge to a harassed looking desk sergeant and was ushered through to a back room, along a labyrinth of clean, identical looking corridors. The room was full of uniforms, each man or woman engrossed in their own particular tasks, walking between desks, clutching files, taking hurried phone calls. The activity in here was less frenetic than on the shop floor, as it were, but no less purposeful. They had a murderer to catch.

She breathed in the atmosphere and immediately felt more at home. This she understood.

In the very back of the room, propped between two filing cabinets, was a projection screen that seemed to be attracting some very specific attention. The majority of the room was ignoring it – they had a lot to get on with, after all, and perhaps they had already seen it – or something like it. Three people looking incredibly out of place in smart casual clothes in the midst of this hive of uniform were stood in front of it, carefully deconstructing a letter, projected onto the battered screen.

These, Grace assumed, must be some of her new colleagues. Hanging back, she took them in.

The first of them wore a crisp suit despite the heat, and had a neat, closely trimmed haircut that suggested authority. She guessed that this was probably SSA Aaron Hotchner, whom she had spoken with over the phone a few weeks previously. He looked like a man you wouldn't want to cross.

Next to him, and closest to the screen was a tall, dark-haired woman; she too was dressed smartly, and had a definite air of confidence about her. She was stood with her hands on her hips, staring at the letter on the projection screen as if it had insulted her in a foreign language and she was trying to guess just what had been implied.

The third and youngest member of her new team was leaning nonchalantly against the projector, a neglected coffee in hand, focussed entirely on the letter. He was tall, with the kind of wavy brown hair that teen idols would die for falling across his face. He didn't look like he paid much attention to it. Curiously, he was dressed more like a postgraduate student than an F.B.I. agent. Grace couldn't tell if it was the glow from the projector, but the young agent looked awfully pale.

Content with – and not remotely ashamed of – her covert assessment of her potential colleagues, she turned her attention to the neatly typed words on the screen. She could see what had caught their attention.

'_I'm back with a vengeance, I wanted you to know. The last guy made it easy, being out so late, stumbling home drunk. I enjoyed slicing around his organs, thought about sending you one. He was asking to be ripped. Don't you think, Boss?_

_Yours Truly'_

Grace frowned: the language was unsettlingly familiar.

The man that was probably Hotchner read the letter aloud, trying to find a new angle on evidence they had probably been staring at for hours now.

"To say that the victims were asking for it denies all culpability," said the tall young man. "Most sexual sadists rationalise their own behaviour by blaming the victims like that."

The woman shook her head, unconvinced.

"But there was no evidence of sexual assault in the autopsy," she argued. "He could be a homosexual – stabbing because he needs violence for arousal."

"Every kill he's acting out a fantasy of revenge," said the-man-who-might-be-Hotchner.

Grace nodded slowly; this case was sounding more familiar by the second, and apparently she wasn't the only one who had noticed.

"What if he's trying to act out something else…?" the tall one mused aloud.

"Like what?" probably-Hotchner asked.

"With the exception of the victims being men, it's the same M.O.," tall-and-thin responded, sounding like he was thinking out loud.

"What are you talking about?" asked the woman.

"Jack the Ripper," said Grace, and immediately wished that she hadn't. Three pairs of eyes turned to stare at her. "Sorry," she said, feeling a blush start around the vicinity of her neck.

"Exactly," said tall-and-thin, looking bemused and curious.

"You must be Agent Pearce," said definitely-Hotchner, holding out a hand. "We spoke on the phone – I'm Aaron Hotchner, welcome to the team."

"Thank you, sir," she said, shaking his hand.

"Hotch, please," he smiled, putting her at ease. "These are Agent Emily Prentiss and Dr Spencer Reid – guys, this is Agent Grace Pearce."

There was a pause as Prentiss warmly shook her hand and Dr Reid gave her an awkward little wave.

"I'm sorry we can't be more welcoming, but –"

"The case comes first," she finished, smiling her understanding.

Agent Hotchner nodded his approval and turned back to Dr Reid, who was still eyeing the newcomer almost warily.

"You were saying?"

"All four victims were found with their throats slashed, eviscerated," said Reid, turning back to face the screen. "Their murders perpetrated in semi-public places after dark, investigators with letters addressed as 'Boss'. The only difference is that that case was a hundred years ago and took place in London."

"Your old stomping grounds," said Prentiss to Grace, making an effort to include her.

Reid glanced at Grace and gave her a small smile.

"Like she said, Jack the Ripper."

"And the UnSub wants us to think that he's the modern-day version, loose in New Orleans?" Hotchner asked.

"Or she," suggested Grace.

"I'm sorry?" asked Emily, surprised.

"We don't have any evidence to support that," said Reid.

"I know," said Grace, hoping she didn't sound as defensive as she felt. "But we also don't have any evidence to refute it. It _would_, however, match the gender reversal of the victims – and explain why there's no obvious sexual component. Even if arousal was the goal with a female suspect there might not be any forensic evidence left at the scene."

Hotchner gave her an appraising look.

"There's nothing to suggest it right now," he said. "But we should certainly keep it in mind." He sighed, tiredly, running a hand through his short dark hair. "Let's call it a night – come back fresh in the morning."

0o0

The ride back to the hotel was oddly tense. Prentiss and Hotchner spent the journey discussing the case and the new angles that the Jack the Ripper connection provided.

Grace sat in the back, making awkward small-talk with Dr Reid until he clammed up completely and stared out of the window, his pale hands clasped tightly in his lap.

Knowing when she wasn't wanted, Grace turned her attention to the passing buildings, glad to have a few moments of peace to simply enjoy the place she was in.

She had loved travelling as a child, rambling across the countryside after her father as he migrated from lecture to lecture. She seldom made time for it these days, preferring to explore books rather than admit to herself that her lack of appetite for exploration was really more to do with fear than the constraints of time and money. For all her outward confidence, time and experience had made her terrified of meeting new people socially. It was lucky, she reflected, that she didn't have the same problem in a professional context.

She smiled slightly, aware of the irony of depending on the depravity of human-kind to make emigration to another continent more bearable.

They pulled up outside a faceless hotel and wandered inside as a group; Grace was immediately relieved to discover that someone had thought to book a room for her, close to where the others were staying.

She suspected that Penelope Garcia had had a hand in it – that and the small basket of toiletries that had appeared on the bed in her room. There was a note attached declaring that it contained 'essential provisions'.

Grace laughed to herself, deciding that she definitely owed her new friend lunch. Silently thanking whichever deity that had thought to provide the world with a gift like Garcia, she jumped in the shower, grateful for the opportunity to wash away nearly two full days of travelling.

A short time later she pulled on some old jeans and a t-shirt – her back-up travel clothes – and shook some life into her hair. There was little point in brushing it, in the humidity of New Orleans, it would simply do whatever it wanted.

Hurrying out into the hall, she collided with a surprised Dr Reid, whose room was apparently just across the corridor from hers.

"Oof," she said, pushing her short, damp curls out of her face. "Sorry Doctor."

"That's ok," he said, helping her to her feet. "I guess we're both equally hungry."

She smiled, but that part of her mind that kept on profiling in defiance of circumstance noted that Reid's new pleasant manner was ever-so-slightly forced. He seemed less tense than before, calmer.

"I'll say," she said, falling into step beside him. For once she was glad of her ridiculously long legs – without them she would have quickly been left behind by her tall new colleague. "After a day and a half of airport food, dinner is something I'm definitely looking forward to."

He grimaced in sympathy as they reached the lift.

"They do seem to specialise in mysterious food," he said, and Grace nodded.

"What I don't get is why there is _always_ something pink and wobbly involved – even when there's no jelly on the menu."

Reid snorted. It seemed to have come as rather a surprise to him.

"I bet the Food Standards Agency couldn't even identify it," he chuckled, and both of them relaxed slightly, content to have found a common enemy, even if it was such a universal one.

"Ah, here they are," said Emily, as the two of them approached a busy table. "Did you get lost?" she added, to Reid.

He visibly stiffened.

"I lost track of time," he said, abruptly, and dropped into an empty seat, avoiding everyone's eyes.

"Sorry," said Grace, a little nonplussed by his moody behaviour. "I had to wash forty-eight hours of airport off."

"Understandable," said a vivacious blonde woman from across the table. "I'm Jennifer Jareau, by the way – or just JJ." She smiled. "I'm the media liaison for the team."

"And this is Derek Morgan," Agent Hotchner added, indicating a confident, attractive black man, looking completely at his ease.

"How're you doin'?" he nodded, with an easy smile. "Garcia can't stop talkin' bout you – you seem to have made quite an impression."

"Hi," she said, smiling back.

"- and I believe you know Jason Gideon," Hotchner finished, as her eyes came to rest on the final agent in the group.

"Only a little," said Grace, genuinely pleased to see him. "I attended a lecture series of yours a few years ago in Cambridge."

"You asked some memorable questions," said Gideon, twinkling at her as she shook his hand.

"It was a thought-provoking seminar."

"You folks ready to order?" asked a waitress, sauntering over in unreasonably high-heels.

Grace settled down quietly in her chair as they waited for their dinner, and watched her new team as they wound down.

This seemed to be an amiable lull in the grim business of their day, though she suspected that most of them would be reviewing their notes until late in the evening.

The easy banter shooting back and forth between Morgan, JJ and Prentiss suggested that this team had a good, solid basis of friendship. It reminded her forcibly of the way her old team had been, before.

Feeling distinctly homesick for a home that wasn't even there any more, she turned her attention to Gideon and Hotch, who were engaged in a quiet conversation – probably, given the few words she could catch – catching each other up about the case.

The only person holding back – apart from Grace, who was far too shy to join in just yet – was Dr Reid.

He was sat slumped in his chair, staring at the plate in front of him, his arms tightly folded. He seemed to be in the grip of another of his strange moods.

Looking around her, it was easy for Grace to see the team as a sort of family unit – Gideon and Hotchner as a pair of rather odd surrogate father figures, their colleagues the unruly siblings. She thought of Garcia, sitting in her lair back in Quantico, every inch the slightly nutty cousin from out of town. Glancing at Reid she quickly placed him as the moody teenager of the group and frowned, hoping that he wasn't always so surly. She wasn't particularly patient when it came to bruised feelings, and could imagine her goodwill dissipating quickly in the face of his churlish behaviour.

Perhaps he would prove her wrong.

She rather hoped so.

He appeared to be about her age and had seemed almost endearingly young in the police department earlier, letting his enthusiasm get the better of him while his mind was on the case. Some of the time he was pleasant – almost sweet – but now, as when he was in the SUV, he had closed himself off from the rest of them.

Profiler that she was, she hadn't missed the furtive looks of concern that the other members of the team were shooting him from around the table.

Deciding that he was probably even shyer than her, Grace decided to let it go for now, ignoring the growl in her stomach.

"So what's England like?" JJ asked, leaning across Dr Reid. He didn't appear to mind, and even looked up to gauge her response.

"Damp," said Grace, firmly. "That's the overarching quality. And a bit mad."

"Why is it that the British always talk about the weather?" Emily asked, with a chuckle.

"It's just that there's rather a lot of it," Grace explained, and several people laughed. "I remember a day last June where we had about eight types of weather in one day. It's something you have to keep an eye on if you want an easy life."

"Not something you'll get 'round here," said Morgan, with a grin. "An easy life."

Grace laughed.

"No, I'd guess not."

"What area were you working in before?" Prentiss asked, interested.

Grace paused before answering, wondering – not for the first time – how much she could say.

"We dealt with the weirder cases," she said, after a moment's thought.

"Serials?" asked Morgan.

"Some of them," Grace nodded. "Basically any case that nobody else wanted. And most things in the Borough."

"The Borough?" JJ asked. "Rough neighbourhood?"

"Southwark," Grace said. "You have to be stout of heart to venture south of the river – particularly if you're a copper. It was my Governor's old manor."

"Manor?"

"Patch."

"Ah."

"Things have a history of going a bit… wobbly… down there," Grace explained. "It was just outside the city proper for several centuries, so it wasn't subject to the same laws until quite recently. They make life hard for coppers there, even if they're generally law-abiding. It's tradition."

Gideon chuckled and Prentiss snorted into her beer.

"Sounds like my old neighbourhood in Chicago," said Morgan, with a rueful smile.

"I suspect everyone's got somewhere they don't like to go."

"For us it's Montana," quipped Prentiss.

"Why?" Grace asked, interested.

The conversation descended into a tongue-in-cheek potted history of the F.B.I. at that point, and everyone had something to say, even occasionally Reid. His interjections were interesting and light, surprising her again.

Grace kept half an eye on him during dinner, wondering what it was that was making him so sullen, and his colleagues watch him so closely.


	4. Paperwork

**Chapter 4 – Paperwork**

**Essential Listening: Us Against the World, Coldplay**

0o0

Breakfast was an odd event, the majority of her new colleagues apparently subsisting on caffeine and not much else. Grace had risen early, still aching from her journey but reasonably refreshed by a night's sleep. She had been up late reviewing the case notes, such as they were, and wanted to get her teeth into whatever the day would bring, her enthusiasm tinged by the knowledge that they were unlikely to get anywhere without another victim.

She had beaten everyone down to the hotel's business-like restaurant except Gideon, who had taken one look at her loaded breakfast plate from over the top of his reading glasses and declared her 'very British'.

"Culture shock," she had quipped, cheerfully resisting the urge to stick her tongue out at the man. While this might have been acceptable behaviour back at the Manor, she didn't think the F.B.I. had quite the same childish mentality as her old colleagues.

They had finished their breakfasts quietly, making occasional small-talk about the lecture series in Cambridge, and Grace's Governor, who had apparently provided her with excellent references.

Grace was dying to know what he'd said – and how much of it was true – and she was certain that Gideon could tell. She suspected that he was rather enjoying himself.

Morgan dropped into the seat beside her and eyed her empty plate in amusement.

"Hungry?"

"Airport food is not like real food."

He and Gideon chuckled, sipping their hot coffees.

The arrival of Agent Morgan signalled a steady trickle of people until the table was once again full of weary agents clutching mugs of whatever was hot and full of caffeine. Not wanting to feel left out, Grace helped herself to a mug of reasonable tea at the counter and settled down to watch as the beverages did their magic.

"Sleep well?" Prentiss asked, noticing how much more alert Grace seemed to be.

"Like the dead," Grace smiled. "Plus I'm not entirely caffeine dependent."

Emily snorted and JJ laughed.

"That'll wear off," she grinned, helping herself to more coffee.

"We're not caffeine dependent," said Reid, and Grace turned to him. He was paler than before, which was worrying in itself, and there had been something almost hateful in his voice, as if Grace was suggesting that they had all been out slaying prostitutes all night.

The look of concern that she had noted the night before rippled through the group, most of whom had stopped talking – or so it seemed to Grace – entirely out of embarrassment.

Maybe there was something going on with the young agent – his team-mates reactions suggested that there was – or maybe he just wasn't a morning person, but then, neither was Grace.

Her old Governor had despaired of Grace's inability to keep her mouth shut – he had once asked her, in total exasperation, whether her need for confrontation was so great that she had to invent reasons for people to pick fights with her. That had been a long time ago, and her unruly mouth had earned her something of a reputation back at home, but she had been much better lately.

Still, she had had a _fuck_ of a journey over the past few days, and her flippant mention of culture shock over breakfast hadn't been entirely misplaced.

And she didn't like his tone.

"It was a joke," she said, as lightly as she could.

"Not a very funny one."

"Depends on where you're sitting, I suppose."

"You mean, you find it funny to point out other people's failings?"

She hadn't expected Dr Reid to react so readily, but he was leaning forward now, eyes narrowed, practically glaring at her. Grace stared at him, surprised.

"When it comes down to it I expect you quite enjoy it – do you know what that makes you, Agent Pearce?"

His voice had a growl to it now, and Grace felt her own eyes narrowing in response.

"No, do tell," she said, coldly.

"It makes you a bully."

Grace rolled her eyes, she couldn't help it.

"It was funny because it's true of me too," she said, waving her half empty mug of tea under his nose; he leaned back, possibly in revulsion. "Tea has caffeine in it too. Have you not heard of self-deprecation?"

"My mother was a professor of fifteenth century literature – I was analysing satire when I was _five_," he scoffed, hotly, clearly insulted.

His voice had risen as he'd spoken, and a few of the hotel's other patrons were staring now.

Agent Hotchner looked very much like he wanted to intercede, but Grace was having none of it.

"Well then, we shouldn't have a problem then, should we?" she asked, taking a perverse pleasure from the way he flushed and his eyebrows shot up.

"I think the problem here might not be language," he said, a dangerous note in his voice.

Grace leaned forward, ignoring the rest of the team, who seemed so nonplussed by Reid's sudden anger that they were simply watching them speechlessly. Their wide eyes flicked between the two of them like they were watching a tennis match.

"Oh, and what might you think the problem is, Dr Reid?" Grace asked, her tone almost sweet.

"I think it's probably –"

"Reid," said Gideon. "That's enough."

He stopped himself, but only just.

"Sorry," said Grace, aware that the admonition had been meant for both of them. She felt her face colour slightly in embarrassment. This was exactly the kind of thing that got her in trouble back home.

"Whatever," Reid muttered, and Grace suspected that she was the only one to have heard him.

There was an awkward silence as the team finished their 'breakfasts', everyone avoiding each others' eyes.

"I hope you got a strong stomach," quipped LaMontagne, arriving at their table and eyeing the seven empty mugs and lone empty plate. "We got another one."

0o0

Grace sighed as she stared down at the bloodied corpse in front of her. This one was probably younger than she was.

It was never something she had expected to get used to, the calm assessment of corpses, but after only a few months with the oddest department of the CID she had found herself almost numb to the horror. These days an eviscerated party-goer didn't even make a dent.

It was sad, really.

"Just like the others," murmured Reid.

The sight of the refuse of yet another pointless crime had provided grounds for a truce, and they stood side-by-side as their team-mates worked the scene.

"The level of violence is interesting," observed Grace, quietly.

"The UnSub is staying with the corpse – enjoying the kill – but displaying no rage, no overkill."

"It does seem oddly calm," Reid nodded. "As if there's no need for release – nothing sexual, like you said yesterday…"

He glanced sideways at her.

"Sorry about before," he said, self-consciously.

Grace shrugged. As annoyed as she had been in the moment, it really hadn't bothered her that much. There was a quiet part of her that was still musing over precisely why her dependency comment had set him off so badly, and she wasn't sure that she liked the way that line of thought was heading.

"Not everyone's a morning person," she said, and then softened her tone a little. "I shouldn't have kept pushing you."

She squatted beside the body.

"He's young, strong, not bad-looking…" she sniffed, mentally filtering out the ferrous tang of the man's blood. "Drunk, from the smell of it."

"There's certainly a type emerging…"

"Young, male and stupid," said Grace, straightening up.

"It's surprising how calm you are, given that this is your first case…"

Dr Reid was staring at her, openly curious.

"My first case with _you_, not my first body," Grace said, giving him a look. "And certainly not the worst I've ever seen," she added, almost to herself.

"The impression I got from Hotch was that your department was one of the minor ones…"

"We are," she admitted, smiling at his blithe lack of tact. "But all that means is we got the cases that no one else wanted – like I said last night."

There was a momentary flicker in Reid's expression that suggested to Grace that he couldn't remember all of the previous evening. She let it go, choosing to put the thought away until later, when she would have time to think it properly.

"The ones they couldn't solve – ones with soap mummies, spontaneous combustion, motorists swearing blind that pixies made their car crash – that sort of thing."

She watched one of his eyebrows rise at the mention of spontaneous combustion, and smiled as he laughed at the pixies.

"No really," she said, with a half smile, "I took that particular statement."

He chuckled.

"Really?"

"My Governor once had a corpse explode on him," she continued, scanning the alleyway for hiding places.

"Methane?"

Grace nodded.

"It wasn't pretty."

"I can imagine."

"Hmm," said Grace, frowning.

"What?"

"If you were going to sneak up on someone, would you do it in a back alley with absolutely nowhere to hide?"

They looked around.

"Dumpster?" Reid suggested, and started towards it, but Grace caught his arm; he visibly flinched.

He stared down at her hand, stunned by the unfamiliar contact.

She took her hand away, surprised at the level of his discomfort.

"Sorry," she said. "We've got company, though."

She nodded to the mouth of the alley, where two distressed and quite sheepish young men were staring, appalled, at the remains of their friend.

"I'll check the bins, they'll be happier talking to you."

"They will?" Reid looked dubious. "Seems unlikely."

"They lost their now mutilated friend in a heavily populated area because they were drunk. They're feeling lost, guilty and incredibly stupid – you have one key advantage, besides the whole 'genius' thing." She smiled at his obviously puzzled expression. "Explaining what happened to a woman who clearly thinks they're idiots will completely emasculate them. Right now they have no concept that women can be equally stupid – you're a guy, they'll expect you to understand."

He watched her go, absently rubbing his arm where she'd touched him, before turning and walking back to the tape.

"Excuse me," he said, approaching the men. The nearest one, a heavy-set young black man tore his eyes away from the corpse. "I'm Dr Spencer Reid, I'm with the F.B.I. –"

He flashed his badge. "I need to ask you a few questions about your friend – 'I'm sorry for your loss."

He led them away from the tape, to where their view of the body was more obscured.

"So, the three of you were out together last night?" he asked them, trying to keep their attention on him and not on their late friend.

He was aware that the rest of the team had gravitated over, content to let the C.S.U.s do their work now that they'd given the scene a once-over. Morgan appeared beside him, an impassive expression on his face.

"Mark had just paid his tab at one bar," said the second young man. "And was on his way to meet us at another."

"You guys get in any trouble?" asked Morgan. "Drunken brawl? Anybody get out of hand?"

"We were just out to have fun, you know," said the first guy, helplessly; Reid wondered whether Grace had been right about their current state of mind. "Mindin' our own business."

"Could Mark have met a girl?" asked Morgan, pressing them. "Maybe upset her boyfriend?"

The men shook their heads.

"No sir," said the first guy.

"He struck out like we all did," his friend finished.

"Thanks, guys," said Morgan as the team turned away.

The two men retreated morosely, clearly relieved to be out of the alley.

"I can hardly keep up with this guy," said LaMontagne, slowly.

"Well," said Prentiss. "If he's mimicking Jack the Ripper that might be precisely the point – he terrorised London for months, without ever getting caught."

"Drove some good men mad looking for him," Grace added, almost to herself.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd gather your men," said Gideon to LaMontagne. "Like to give you a profile of who you're up against.

0o0

The police station was already stuffy, despite the early hour. The local police were gathered about in groups, notebooks at the ready.

"I'd like you sit out of this one, Pearce," said Agent Hotchner as they filed in.

Grace nodded. This wasn't wholly unexpected given her late arrival to the case; they hadn't really worked with her long enough to trust her – her abilities as a profiler were still unknown.

"Alright people, listen up," said Detective LaMontagne. "These agents have worked out a profile of this guy – one we all need to know." He perched on a desk near the front of the room. "All yours."

"Thank you," said Hotchner. "The offender we're looking for is friendly, agile, somewhere between thirty and thirty-five."

"He'll lure with charm and kill with rage," said Gideon.

"We believe he's murdering men to reclaim his power," said Prentiss from the side. "This UnSub suffers from low self-esteem – but he probably covers it well. He dresses impeccably to feed the façade. Jack the Ripper was an 'impetuous lust' murderer, whereas this offender is organised, calculating – he might even stalk his victims for days before the kill."

Grace frowned: that didn't seem right to her. None of the victims had been taken while following their routines – they had been hunted down at random from the target-rich environment that the French Quarter represented.

She kept quiet, hoping that the doubt wasn't showing on her face. It wouldn't do to contradict the profile in front of the wider force.

"We believe this killer identified with Jack the Ripper because he's lost his own identity," said Gideon. "Maybe through years of child abuse, or some catastrophic event."

"Because he over-compensates to hide his insecurities we believe he may hold a position of authority at work," continued Hotchner.

"And since we think he's had medical training," Emily added, "consider doctors, EMTs, veterinarians."

"Please be careful," Gideon urged. "To this UnSub the French Quarter is a hunting ground." He gave a hollow chuckle. "He's certainly already proved that he knows the terrain."

"Alright folks," said Detective LaMontagne, standing and clapping his hands together. "Let's get out there and start canvassing the bars, workers, patrons."

"Morgan," said Agent Hotchner, as the level of bustle increased in the room. "You and Prentiss join the canvassing teams – the French Quarter is a big area and we need as many people out there as we can."

"You never know," said Morgan, grabbing his jacket. "We might get lucky."

"The rest of us are staying here," Hotchner explained as Morgan and Prentiss headed out the door. "Garcia's come up with a list of medical staff in the area," he continued, with little enthusiasm. "We might as well make a start excluding them."

"I'll check the local files for any violent crimes," JJ volunteered. "Since the homicide files have been washed away there might be some evidence of a build-up there."

"Good," said Hotch. "Pearce, you help JJ."

"Righty-ho," said Grace, fighting the urge to salute, and followed JJ down the hall to an ominously large stack of file boxes.

"These were all that were left after Katrina," said JJ, grimly.

"Even the weather hates paperwork," Grace mumbled, grabbing a box.

0o0

Grace stretched and popped her spine.

"Got anything?" she asked JJ, without much hope.

"Lots of scumbags," said JJ, wearily, "But nothing quite like _our_ scumbag."

Grace sighed. They had been at it for hours, the five of them poring over files around a cramped table in the back room.

"It speaks for the medical profession that we haven't found _more_ evidence of psychopathy," said Reid, flicking through another stack of files at a ridiculous speed.

Grace watched him for a moment, wondering whether the young agent might actually be part android.

They'd put in a full day's paper chasing and hadn't come up with one good lead. Morgan and Prentiss hadn't had much luck on the streets either. They came in exhausted at shift change and wearily plonked down into two empty chairs.

"Alright," said Hotchner, looking around at his exhausted team. "We're getting nowhere. Let's call it a night."

"Fancy a bite to eat?" Morgan asked the team at large.

"I could go for some Chinese," said JJ, perking up. "I'll see if Detective LaMontagne wants some."

"Sounds good to me," said Hotchner, getting to his feet. "Gideon?"

"I'm going to stay here, finish this stack," he said, pulling it towards him. "You go on."

"I'll give you a hand," said Emily, pulling some files towards her. "We can order something in."

"How 'bout you, new girl?" Morgan asked, and Grace smiled, glad to be included.

"I'll pass this time, if that's alright," she said. "My brain's pretty fried, and I want to get a feel for the Quarter – it's nothing like I'm used to."

"Be careful," said Gideon, and she nodded, knowing that they wouldn't be too worried. She wasn't the UnSub's type, anyway.

"I'll keep my eyes peeled," she said. "You never know."

"Pretty boy?"

"Uh – actually I'm meeting up with that old friend I told you about."

"Ethan?"

"Yeah."

"Well don't stay out too late," said Morgan, throwing his arm around Reid's shoulders as he piloted him to the door. "You know you need your beauty sleep!"

0o0

_Meanwhile…_

A young man walks down a deserted alley, turning now as he catches an unexpected noise behind him.

Is someone following him?

Could it be our UnSub, out on the prowl earlier than usual?

Unsettled, the man turns a corner and comes face-to-face with a fairly smug looking Spencer Reid, who had clearly been lurking behind the wall.

"Geez," said Ethan, startled. "Reid, you scared me."

"I've always been one step ahead of you, man," said Reid, with a warm smile.

"Yeah? Whatever helps you sleep at night," said Ethan, with a chuckle. "I'm glad you called, it's good to see you."

"You too," smiled Reid.

"Let's go get a drink."


	5. Old Friends

**Chapter 5 – Old Friends**

**Essential Listening: Circles, Passenger**

0o0

"Prentiss," said Emily, wearily, into her phone.

She and Gideon had been working on a paper trail that was beginning to feel like a dead end for what seemed like hours, not even taking a break to eat. She peered into the nearest carton of takeout, hoping there was some left.

"What was the thing Jack the Ripper took from one of his victims?" Garcia asked, from her lair in Quantico. It had been a long day all-round and she, too, had ordered takeout. "Besides, well, you know, her life?"

"Oh…" Emily groaned, trying to force her tired brain to remember. "Uh… er?"

"Mm," said Garcia, between mouthfuls of noodle. "Tick-tock, tick-tock."

"I don't know," said Emily, giving in.

"A kidney," said Garcia, triumphantly. "How horrifyingly fantastic is that?"

"Mm-hmm," said Emily. "And are you going anywhere with this?"

"Just that I found an unsolved murder that happened four months ago in Galveston, Texas, with the same M.O.," said Garcia, rightfully smug. "The victim missing _that_ _very organ_." Although no one could see her, she pretended to take a drag from one of her chopsticks. "I amaze myself."

"Yeah," said Emily, pleasantly surprised, jotting down the details. "Me too, great work!"

"What's that?" Gideon asked, wearily.

"Garcia found a similar case in Galveston, Texas."

Gideon nodded.

"Lot of Katrina refugees relocated there," he said.

"It could be the same guy," said Prentiss. "He removed the kidney, just like jack the Ripper."

"Call Reid and Morgan," said Gideon. "I want the three of you on a plane to Texas tonight."

0o0

Waiting for another drink by the bar, Reid's phone rang. Checking the caller I.D. he ignored it, frowning slightly, putting it back in his pocket.

He and Ethan had eaten at one of New Orleans's busier cafés, where Ethan seemed to be a regular, chatting easily with the waitress and surreptitiously watching his old friend. He'd been surprised at how much of the New Orleans accent Ethan had absorbed over the years, and had been left wondering at how much they'd both changed.

They had headed for Ethan's bar, since he had to work later, and Reid had been reluctant to talk in the crowded café.

"So," said Ethan, watching him again. "Are you gonna ask the question?"

"What question?" asked Reid, looking politely confused.

"Come on, man," said Ethan, with an easy smile. "It's me here. We haven't talked to each other in years – I know it's why you called me."

He chuckled at his friend as Reid began to look sheepish.

"Ask the question," he said, again.

"Why did you quit after one day of F.B.I. training?"

"Well," Ethan drawled, appearing to think about it. "I'm sure you've considered the evidence, analysed the signs," he glanced up at Reid. "What's your theory?"

Reid shrugged.

"You were battling your own demons, you didn't have time to analyse someone else's," he guessed. His eyes shot up to meet Ethan's, hoping that he hadn't offended his friend, but he needn't have worried.

"Not bad, not bad," said Ethan. "Those days I did prefer Jack Daniels to Jeff Dhamer… they both weigh on your soul, eventually."

Reid frowned as his phone rang again.

"Sorry," he said, checking the I.D. and slipping it straight back into his pocket.

"The Bat-phone," growled Ethan, and Reid forced a laugh. He was ignoring Emily as more of a whim than anything else – a childish reaction to being interrupted – but the more he thought about it, the more he realised that he didn't want to know what was going on with the case.

And that frightened him more than anything.

It was part of the reason he'd called Ethan the night before.

"Let me ask you this, Ethan," he said, gathering his thoughts. "Do you ever regret it?"

He watched his old friend almost breathlessly as Ethan considered his answer.

"You know, I may not be changin' the world," said Ethan, after a thoughtful pause. "But my music makes me happy." He shot Reid a long look. "Doesn't take a profiler to see that you're not."

Reid grimaced, paying for his drink and watching Ethan move across to some comfortable looking chairs in a darker area of the bar.

"It's not easy," he said quietly, following him. "It's not… I don't really believe some of the things that I've seen."

He sat down across from Ethan, nursing his brandy.

"John Coltrane," said Ethan, wisely. "He was a genius too – died of cancer. But most people think it was the booze and heroin did him in."

"What're you trying to say?" asked Reid, uncomfortable. He didn't really want him to answer. He knew the way he looked. These days he could look in the mirror and catch a glimpse of the boy he had been, but those glimpses were increasingly sparse.

"You look like hell," said Ethan, bluntly.

Reid scoffed, lightly.

"I'm fine," he lied, wrapping his free arm around himself.

"Come on, man," said Ethan, not unkindly. "I'm a jazz musician in New Orleans, I know what it looks like when someone's 'not well'."

Reid stayed quiet, squirming slightly under his friend's scrutiny.

"This may be the one time I can tell you somethin' you _don't_ know," Ethan continued. He pointed at the brandy, and Reid understood that that wasn't _quite_ what he meant. "It might help you forget," he said, candidly. "But it won't make it go away. And if I can tell," he paused, shaking his head. "You're surrounded by some of the best minds in the world – if you think they don't notice…"

He raised his hand, palm downwards and made it tremble, staring straight at Reid, who swallowed.

"Well," said Ethan, dropping his hand. "For a genius, that's just dumb."

Spencer looked away, unwilling to acknowledge the uncomfortable truth – at least aloud.

He knew that Ethan was right, of course.

He knew the physiological effects of his addiction – knew the toll it was having on his health and mental state. The effects of Dilaudid on long term users weren't pleasant.

At first he'd tried to convince himself that what he was doing was simply a way of weaning himself off the drug; in the time he had been with Hankel he'd had so much of the stuff in his system it was only logical he'd need to back off from it a little at a time.

Logical.

Reasonable.

He had known that it was no longer an acceptable premise when it had taken longer than he'd expected. He'd known he was on a dangerous path, known the odds of being able to quit if he kept on it – he could probably have quoted statistics on it, had anyone asked.

Again, he'd rationalised it, dismissed the rising need he'd had for escape – for release – and convinced himself instead that it was a means of dealing with the torture. A break from reality.

If anyone deserved that after the past few years, he did.

Each hit he took had become a vacation from the chaos of his life into the blissful, light world of his childhood, or at least the parts of it that he wanted to remember. Every memory as vivid and real as if he were actually there, living it over again.

Eventually, he had stopped trying to explain his actions to himself; he had run out of excuses.

He'd tried to keep it separate from his work, tried to stay objective, but he knew that it was taking him over. The team had noticed – of course they had – it was impossible to hide anything from them for long, and in any case he was an appalling liar. The cravings were much worse now, making him short with his friends, breaking his concentration.

Somehow he had begun to convince himself that they knew and didn't care, but most of the time he was aware how stupid that sounded, even in his head. They were good people on whom he knew he could depend, but in the tight, hot flashes of desperate need he felt himself despise them, and was repulsed by his own selfishness.

The shaking was the worst part.

It would start slowly, like an itch at the back of his mind, building in intensity until he couldn't stand it any more.

As Ethan had pointed out, it was one of the more obvious signs, and he would tell himself that he _had_ to do it – he couldn't let his friends see the way he was shaking – see how little control he had left.

Early on, he'd made the mistake of shooting up in his own bathroom. After, when he'd cleared up, he'd caught his eyes in the mirror.

He hadn't recognised the person staring back at him from the silvered glass.

He wasn't fine.

He hadn't been fine in a long time.

Ethan's low whistle jolted him out of his thoughts. He turned in his seat, following his old friend's gaze.

Agent Pearce was leaning against the bar, chatting easily with the bar man. She seemed different here, free of the nerves working with a new team might elicit. At work, she had been every inch the seasoned cop, though with that slightly odd sense of humour Gideon had referenced. He put it down to her being British.

She had obviously headed back to the hotel after they had split up – her neat suit had been exchanged for the jeans he recognised from the evening before, when she had reminded him of a student attending some out-of-town conference. She'd kept the blouse she'd been wearing during the day, however, and Reid wondered whether she had experienced the usual hassle at the airport and lost her luggage – though she hadn't said anything.

She had a light smile on her face that made the corners of Spencer's mouth want to twist upwards in echo.

Instead, he frowned and glanced back at Ethan, uncertain what it was he could see in Pearce that Reid himself had missed. She was just another agent, one that might become a friend if the B.A.U. suited her.

Another agent, who – like Ethan – had probably worked out that he 'wasn't well'.

She was checking up on him.

She took her drink from the lethargic bar-man then, and looked around for somewhere to sit; he saw the recognition in her eyes as she caught sight of him and Ethan – who was still openly enjoying her appearance – and she nodded.

He returned the gesture, fighting the wave of anger and suspicion that rolled through him as she started towards them.

"Well hello," Ethan drawled, clearly enjoying the view.

"Hi," she said, with a smile, adjusting her course ever so slightly.

She had been heading past them, Reid realised, with a fresh flush of irrational anger. Did she think he'd just ignore her? Pretend she wasn't here?

"You're not from around here, are you sugar?" Ethan purred.

"The accent's a bit of a giveaway," she said, smiling wryly.

"You got a name?"

"Grace," she said, returning his appreciative gaze.

Reid fought the urge to roll his eyes. No matter where Ethan went he would find a woman that would hang on his every word.

"I'm Ethan," he grinned. "And this is my old friend, Spencer."

"We've met," she said, her smile freezing slightly as she took in Reid's less than friendly expression.

Ethan, far too interested in Agent Pearce, didn't notice.

"Ah, you're B.A.U.," he said; he turned to Reid. "I'm beginning to regret dropping out more with every passin' moment."

There was a brief, awkward silence. Spencer was surprised to notice that Pearce's cheeks had tinged slightly pink at Ethan's words. It rattled him slightly: the way she had argued at breakfast he hadn't expect her to be shy.

"Well," said Ethan, glancing between them. "I gotta take a leak."

Pearce glanced at him as he passed her, before she returned her unwavering gaze back to Reid.

They stared at each other – one hostile, one mostly just confused – for a few long, tense, silent moments. It was funny, he thought suddenly, that he'd been glaring at her for most of the day and hadn't noticed how unsettlingly blue her eyes were until now.

Spencer had been about to demand an explanation as to why she was following him when her cell phone rang, interrupting them.

"Pearce," she said, turning away slightly, consciously excluding him from the conversation. "Oh, hey Prentiss."

Reid tensed. This was _not_ going to end well.

"Reid?" she glanced at him, and he felt like he'd been punched in the stomach.

She would tell Emily that he was ignoring his phone, he'd be reprimanded – Hotch would be forced to start an investigation into his recent behaviour. He'd be declared 'unfit' for duty – he'd lose his job – he'd –

"No, I haven't seen him," she said, jolting him out of his panic. His mouth fell open; he stared at her, dumbfounded.

"Yes, I'll let you know. Good luck in Galveston."

She hung up, still staring coolly back at him.

"Wh-" he began, but Ethan was already coming back towards them.

Pearce threw back the majority of her drink and smiled at Ethan.

"I hear you're a native," she said, with a quirk of her lips.

"These days," he grinned.

"Where would a girl go around here if she wanted to hear some blues?"

"Ah, good-looking, has a gun _and_ taste in music – you sure you don't wanna stay here?"

Grace laughed, and it seemed to Reid that the laughter had been startled out of her.

"I'll take that as a gentle let down," Ethan grinned. "You want Miss Dixie's off Decayter Street – here –"

Spencer watched her as Ethan gave her directions and drew her a map on a napkin. Aware of his scrutiny, she was managing her micro-expressions carefully, not giving anything away.

"I'll leave you boys to it," she said, finishing her drink in one, final gulp. Ethan was clearly impressed. "See you tomorrow, Reid."

He nodded, watching her as she departed, one eyebrow raised.

"She is somethin' else," said Ethan, appreciatively. "What – you sayin' you haven't noticed?" he added, on Reid's look.

"I only met her yesterday," he said, wondering what Ethan could possibly see in her.

Ethan stared at him for a few moments – that long, slow stare that told Reid he was being sized up.

"You are a long way from bein' 'fine', my friend," he said, sadly.

Spencer looked away.

_Don't I know it_, he thought.


	6. Two Out of Three

**Chapter 6 – Two Out of Three**

_**Just out of interest, is anyone actually listening to the essential listening? I'm not overly bothered if you aren't, I'm just intrigued : )**_

_**Time for Agent Pearce to show her quality…**_

**Essential Listening: Hey Bartender!, Koko Taylor**

0o0

After a while, Prentiss had stopped calling, and Spencer had begun to relax, ignoring the nagging feeling that he was acting like a petulant child.

He and Ethan had drunk their fill and caught up, his friend steering the conversation to lighter things now that he had given all the advice he could. They had said their goodbyes outside the bar both promising to keep in touch this time around, and Reid had watched Ethan duck back inside to prep the stage for the evening's show. He was calmer now than when they had been growing up – happier.

The part of Reid that made him squirm with guilt really hated him for that.

He kicked the stones on the pavement in front of him.

The itch that had begun a scant hour earlier was creeping across his mind, and he knew that it wouldn't be long before it had him in its cold, sharp grasp once more.

He had to move.

He started walking, feeling his muscles relax slightly as he put them to use. His face set, he ignored the people around him. It didn't matter where he ended up, as long as there wasn't a needle there.

It was with some surprise that he found himself outside a heaving bar. He glanced up at the garish sign above the door.

'_Miss Dixie's'_

He leaned back, a little surprised at his own subconscious. Perhaps he didn't want to be on his own tonight after all.

_Well_, he thought, _she _is_ a colleague – I can't just let her wander around a foreign city with a serial killer on the loose. Even if I'm more his type than she is._

Besides, he ought to apologise for his behaviour. Again.

Although he suspected that Agent Pearce could probably take care of herself and that this was just a handy excuse not to go back to the hotel, he elbowed his way through the press of people around the door and looked around.

She had positioned herself under a large fan near the end of the bar, towards the back of the crush of people around the band. There were more than a few empty glasses beside her, and he wondered just how much she'd had.

Here, in her own element, she was completely relaxed, oblivious to everything except the music that she was so clearly enjoying. The easy smile she wore as she listened and the oddly sensual way she was moving to the music made Spencer think that perhaps Ethan had been on to something after all. He blushed, glad that there were no profilers nearby.

He wasn't the only one who'd noticed her. A group of men walked by her, one of them 'accidentally' jostling her, his wing-men melting into the crowd. Reid started towards her, arriving within earshot just in time to hear one of the top ten worst pick-up lines _ever_.

"I hate when that happens – I'm sorry," purred the man, oozing what he probably thought was charm. "What can I do to make it up to you?"

Still a little way behind her, Reid couldn't quite see her expression, but her body language had shifted to unimpressed. He suspected that she was giving the man an appraising look.

"I'd say you can go fuck yourself," she said, almost conversationally.

The man sputtered and Reid stared at her, a smirk breaking out across his face. She really didn't need his help.

"That's not a ver' ladylike thing to say," said the man, his tone slipping from sugary to tart.

Agent Pearce sighed.

"Spell: 'synecdoche'," she said.

The man gaped at her; Reid was reminded of an overgrown goldfish.

"What?"

"Spell: 'synecdoche'," she repeated, almost impatiently.

"Why, darlin'?" Mr Goldfish drawled, under the misguided impression that he was getting somewhere.

"Because I like the men I fuck to have more than two brain cells," she said, coolly, and the man reeled as if she'd slapped him.

"Who the hell do you thi-" Mr Goldfish began, angrily, but he was cut off.

Reid didn't know why he did it, other than a vague connection to the amount of brandy he and Ethan had put away between them, or the maddening itch that was clawing its way up his spine – or even the way Agent Pearce had been dancing – but he couldn't stop himself.

"S-y-n-e-c-d-o-c-h-e."

Agent Pearce and Mr Goldfish both turned to stare at him.

After a moment of surprise, Grace smiled broadly.

"Now that's more like it," she said, in a tone that made him start blushing again.

Mr Goldfish looked disgusted.

"Him?" he demanded. "You'd pick _him_ over me?"

"_Every_ time," said Grace, firmly, and Mr Goldfish stormed off to meet his friends.

"Thanks," she said, sliding over to Reid. "He was dead slimy."

"No problem," he replied, suddenly uncomfortable. He'd wanted to ask her why she'd lied for him and apologise for his earlier rudeness, but now he was here he didn't know where to start.

She must have noticed a little of his discomfort, because her smile softened.

"Let me buy you a drink," she offered, elbowing away from him. "Brandy, right?"

"Uh, yeah – thanks…" he said, but she'd already gone. She was assessing the length of the queue for the bar now, and he half expected her to turn back and suggest they went somewhere else, but she didn't. His eyes nearly popped out of his head as she undid the top two buttons on her blouse in a calculating sort of way; the two very busy bar-men made a bee-line for her, nearly crashing into one another in their rush to be helpful.

Apparently Agent Pearce was not a woman to be trifled with.

"I get bored in queues," she explained when she got back to him, handing him his drink.

"Oh," he said, not quite sure how to react. A question formulated it self in his unusually empty mind. "Synecdoche?"

Pearce smiled into her drink.

"A little unfair, perhaps, but I thought it might be the quickest way to get rid of him." He must still have looked confused because she continued: "It gets harder to spell the drunker you are – I figured he'd move on to someone who wouldn't give him a pop quiz before she let him buy her a drink."

"He was getting pretty angry."

Pearce nodded, thoughtfully.

"Assaulting a federal agent wouldn't be a great way to end an evening, I suppose," she said, conversationally.

Reid smirked.

"Nor would getting into a bar fight on your second night on the job," he said, and Pearce smirked, too.

"Funnily enough my old Governor warned me about that…" she joked.

"You shock me," he said, and they both laughed.

Pearce swirled her drink contemplatively.

"I'm probably drinking too much," she observed. "Subconscious homesickness, I reckon."

"I can't tell," said Reid, over the noise of the crowd. As he said it, he realised that he could, however, smell the whiskey on her breath. "But a hangover tomorrow might also be inadvisable."

"It was another point in my Gov's top three things not to do in a new job," she admitted, with a grin.

"What was number three?"

"Sleep with a colleague."

Once he'd stopped choking, he realised that Agent Pearce was laughing again, and when he could breathe he joined her. It felt good to laugh again, and Pearce seemed to have the knack of surprising it out of you, like she knew it was hiding in there somewhere, just waiting for the opportunity to come out.

"Still," she said, turning away. "Two out of three will do – the hangover's more or less a dead-cert right about now… and perhaps Mr Slimy will come back."

"You must have been a real hit back home," he said, and for a moment she looked so unhappy that he almost reached out and gave her a hug.

"You've no idea," she said, so softly he almost missed it under the pounding music in the bar.

Her sadness seemed to melt as quickly as it had appeared.

"Still," she said. "I'm here now, and you lot seem like a great bunch – little idiosyncratic at times, but that's never bothered me."

He wanted to say something nice to her, to make her feel welcome and forget whatever it was that had momentarily consumed her, but the music changed and he missed his chance.

Pearce turned back to the band and whistled appreciatively.

"I _love_ this one," she exclaimed, beginning to dance again, swaying and shifting to the powerful, guttural music.

Reid took a gulp of his brandy, trying to keep his eyes on the band and not on her. He considered putting his drink down – he could feel the alcohol clouding his judgement, making him think things a professional agent probably shouldn't – but he wanted something in his hands. The itch was still there, competing with the throbbing music and close heat of the room.

A surge in the crowd by the bar pushed Pearce backwards, so that – for a moment – his hand was on the curve of her hip, their bodies moving together with the inertia of the crowd.

Reid gasped, surprised, and Agent Pearce turned to him to apologise. He waved it away with an awkward smile and she turned her attention back to the band.

_What am I _doing_ here?_ he asked himself, taking another deep drink.

The hot buzz of the brandy was making his head cloudy; he fiddled with the top button of his shirt. The heat in the club was cloying, oppressive.

Agent Pearce wasn't making it any easier, he noted, with a sort of detached amusement. Not that she could possibly know what the combination of the alcohol and her dancing was doing to him. After weeks of Dilaudid induced numbness, he barely knew himself.

His fingers ached to touch her again, even just for a moment; he shook his head to clear it, distracted.

_What is _wrong_ with me_? he wondered. _I only met this woman yesterday – and she's a colleague, it would be entirely inappropriate…_

_A colleague that lied for me._

Realising with some surprise that his eyes had been following the inviting curves of his new team-mate's body he looked away across the club, mightily embarrassed.

The band was winding the song down now; the expression on Pearce's face was easy and content, and he wished he could keep an image of it somewhere safe in his head to help him through his darker moments.

He swallowed the dregs of his brandy, making up his mind.

"Grace?" he began, and she turned to him, that satisfied smile still on her lips. For a split second he thought about kissing her, but he shook himself mentally, telling himself that it was the brandy talking, and that it should _absolutely_ be ignored. "Why did you tell Prentiss that you hadn't seen me?"

The smile evaporated and she looked down for a moment, considering her answer.

"You had the look of a man who needed a night to himself," she said, gently. "Look," she went on, biting her lip. "I don't know what's going on with you, but it's obvious that something is – and far be it from me to stop you getting a bit of breathing space if it's what you need to do."

Not for the first time, he had no idea what to say – had he really been that easy to profile?

"Um… thank you," he managed, intending to say something profound, but the words just wouldn't happen.

Grace gave him a small smile and he found himself offering to refill her glass. He wrangled his way to the bar almost happily, startled by the knowledge that he hadn't thought about the vial of Dilaudid waiting for him in his hotel room for a whole ten minutes.

0o0

The airstrip shone with the aftermath of a fall of rain.

_Not enough to dampen spirits in the French Quarter_, Morgan thought, pensively, as he climbed onto the waiting jet. _Maybe we'll get lucky_, he mused as he heaved his go-bag over his shoulder.

He rather doubted it.

"Hey," he said.

Prentiss was already settled in the jet, going over the Galveston files.

"Hey." She looked behind him, her face falling.

"Where's Reid?" he asked, glancing around the jet.

"I was hoping he was with you," Prentiss explained, concerned.

"I thought you said you'd call him?" he said, sitting down.

"I did, four times – nothing! I even called Pearce in case she'd run into him…" she looked at her watch, unhappily. "The victim's fiancée is expecting us."

Morgan sighed, checking his own watch.

"What are we supposed to do?"

"We got one option," said Morgan, unhappily. "Wheels up."

He went to tell the pilot that they weren't waiting.

He wasn't blind to Reid's issues. They'd all noticed his behaviour: the lack of patience, the sudden outbursts of anger. None of them had said anything, even to each other; it would have felt too much like betrayal.

But now…

Until now, he'd done everything he could to stay on top of a case, irrespective of the turmoil he was obviously experiencing.

Morgan sighed heavily, watching the metal steps of the jet retract as the door of the jet closed.

This time, Reid had gone too far.

0o0

JJ turned a page, trying to concentrate on the case notes despite the noise of the bar she was sitting in. After they'd eaten she'd allowed Detective LaMontagne to drag her out for a 'change of scene', as he put it, on the basis that they needed to think about something else for a while.

She hadn't put up much of a fight.

Detective LaMontagne was a nice guy, after all.

"Thank you," said the Detective, as the bartender handed him a mug of beer. He looked down at his notes; JJ looked at the beer in surprise.

Surely the Detective wasn't drinking on the job.

"It's not right," said LaMontagne, gesturing at the file in front of him. "The French Quarter's one of the only parts of the city that dodged Katrina, and now there's a serial killer loose.

"It's a small area, we're narrowing down the profile," JJ reassured him, glancing at the beer. "We'll find him."

LaMontagne picked up his beer and took a thoughtful sip.

"You always drink when you're still on the clock?" she asked, lightly.

"This is New Orleans, honey," said LaMontagne, amused. "It's a cultural thing."

JJ nodded, surprised – he had seemed like such a straight cop.

"Where are you from?" he asked her, taking another sip.

"Pennsylvania."

"I take it folks are a little rigid about the rules up that way?" he drawled and she gave him a look. He _was_ smiling though, so she laughed.

"If it makes you feel better," LaMontagne said, pushing the glass away. "We'll play it Pennsylvania style tonight."

JJ smiled, surprised – and a little flattered

"I – I just hate that this guy has a leg up on us, you know?" he lamented.

"I promise: as soon as my team knows anything we'll hear, ok?"

LaMontagne nodded, and then stole a sideways glance at her, mischief in his eyes.

"Why haven't you married?" he asked, and JJ stared at him, astonished.

"Uh, that involves this case _how_? Exactly?"

"It doesn't," he said, playfully. "I'm jus' flirtin'."

JJ stared at him.

_Well, he _is_ cute_, she thought, and looked away, surprised at herself.

"It's unprofessional," he said, embarrassed. "You don't have to answer that."

"Excuse me," one of the waitresses reached passed JJ and presented Detective LaMontagne with a drink. "Complements of the woman in the blue top."

Both JJ and Detective LaMontagne turned to look; the woman waved at him coquettishly.

"Wow, that was bold," said JJ, a little more jealous than she'd expected to be.

"Well, she might'a thought we were jus' workin'," said Detective LaMontagne, testing the waters.

"We are," said JJ, flatly.

"Wait – are you jealous?" LaMontagne asked, with a quirk of his mouth that made JJ incapable of being offended.

"No!" she refuted. "I'm just – I'm surprised, that's all."

LaMontagne laughed, and JJ decided that it might be worth a little embarrassment to see him grin like that again, the weight of the case forgotten.

"You're a lousy liar, too," he continued, still grinning.

JJ stared at him for a moment.

"Haven't had much practice, huh?"

She laughed, realising that this was a compliment.

"It's a culture thing," she grinned, swatting him lightly on the arm. "See… There you go," she said, passing him the drink.

She had never met anyone quite as laid back as Detective LaMontagne. She settled back on the bar stool, realising that despite the folder full of brutal murders in front of her, she was rather enjoying herself.

0o0

Reid leaned against the bar, watching Agent Pearce dance.

Against all expectation, he was enjoying himself. The brandy and the heat, and the attractive young woman who genuinely seemed to be enjoying his company had dulled the itch that had been threatening to consume him. It was still there, but right now Agent Pearce was far too distracting for him to care.

He was drunk, he knew, because there was no way that he would _ever_ overtly stand two feet behind a woman – a colleague, even – and stare at her body. No way.

Yet that was what he had been doing for the past hour and a half, getting steadily drunker and steadily less inclined to listen to the part of his mind that was telling him that this was a Bad Idea.

He was ignoring it.

He ran his eyes over Pearce, appreciatively.

There was something truly appealing about her, he mused. She wasn't what you might call a classic beauty – there was a sharpness to her face and eyes that made her look a little impish. She probably thought she was a little overweight, but Reid – who had been paying attention now for far longer than was proper – thought that she was just right: pleasantly curvy in all the right places.

He liked the way that her hair fell across her face. It was a shade darker than JJ's and while it had been straight earlier in the day, in the heat and humidity of the club it had begun to fall in waves.

It was probably just the brandy talking, but when she smiled it made the whole world seem lighter somehow, tipping the scales of her aesthetics to beauty.

Pearce, oblivious to Reid's drunken and conscious assessment of her, turned to him, laughing.

"This is a _great_ one," she laughed, and he could see that she was almost as drunk as he was. "Dance with me!"

"I – uh," he stared at the hand that was gripping his. "I can't dance –"

"_Everyone_ can dance," Pearce insisted, pulling on his arm. "Dance with me."

"No, really," he protested, feeling very hot under the collar, but Agent Pearce ignored him.

"Here," she said, taking his hands and placing them on her hips.

Reid felt his mouth go dry.

"You just need to get into the rhythm, that's all – and this is blues, so it's a _good_ rhythm."

She started to move with him, laughing lightly at his wide-eyed expression.

"Come on, Spencer, I'm thousands of miles from home in a club riddled with slimy men – I just want a friend to dance with." She tapped him very playfully on the end of his nose. "And you need to step outside of yourself for a little while."

Reid cleared his throat, trying to ignore how good she felt pressed up against him, the sweet smell of alcohol on her breath.

He really liked the way his name sounded on her lips.

"I'm – uh – really clumsy," he said, desperately trying to maintain control.

"I couldn't tell," she said, with a quirk of her mouth. "But really, it's not hard – you know that music has been linked with early human development, right?"

Reid nodded, concentrating on not stepping on her feet.

"So let go – it's hard-wired in. Your body knows what to do."

He tried not to jump as she wound her arms around his waist.

"That's it," she said, smiling. "You're getting the hang of it."

He seriously doubted it, but he wasn't going to argue. Her proximity was making him giddy, and he unconsciously tightened his grip on her.

Maybe he _could_ get to like this.

0o0

Prentiss sat across from Miss Duprés, feeling deeply uncomfortable. This was the part of the job that never got easier: invading a person's home on the worst day of their lives. Or worse, like Miss Duprés, when they had finally begun to put it all behind them and were trying to get on with their lives, only to have it all dragged back up again.

Beside her, Morgan shifted in his seat, equally tense.

For a moment, Prentiss wished that they didn't have to do this, that they could leave this woman in peace.

But that was the job.

"Everybody kept saying that crime was gonna skyrocket after the relocation," Miss Duprés was saying. "You just never think it's gonna happen to you."

She had the look of a woman who had been dealing with far too much for far too long.

"The report said that your fiancé was bar-hopping for his bachelor party on the night he was killed," said Prentiss, steering Miss Duprés back to the matter at hand.

"We were supposed to be married in October," she nodded, struggling to keep the emotion out of her voice. "He was just out celebrating that with friends."

"Was there anyone at Leonard's bachelor party that you didn't know?" Morgan asked.

Miss Duprés shook her head.

"We all grew up together," she said. "They're like family to me. Whether they met somebody out – now that's a different story," she gave them the ghost of a smile. "They're a rowdy bunch, they'd party with anybody."

Prentiss nodded and got to their feet.

"Thank you for your help," she said.

"It's no problem," said Miss Duprés, sadly. "As long as you find out who killed Leonard."

Prentiss sighed as she and Morgan climbed back into the S.U.V..

Sometimes the job _sucked_.

"Each of the last two victims was travelling in a group, both were drinking – both in public arenas, bar-hopping, so _how_ could their friends not see anything?"

Morgan tapped the steering-wheel, thoughtfully.

"It's like when a lion preys on an antelope," he said; Prentiss raised an eyebrow.

"You lost me."

Morgan looked at her, chuckling.

"Well that's because, Emily Prentiss, _you_ have never been one of the antelope."

Prentiss gave him a look that suggested that Morgan hadn't been getting nearly enough sleep lately.

"Scratch that, you've totally lost me."

"Ok," said Morgan. "Check this out: the antelope travel in packs, so the lion just sits and waits – waits for just one of the antelope to break away from its herd. So when he's alone, vulnerable and completely unprotected, that's when a lioness strikes – that's when she makes her move."

"Wait a minute," said Prentiss, remembering a previous conversation. "_Her_ move?"

"Prentiss," said Morgan. "There's only one thing that's gonna make a straight man leave his friends on a guys' night out – and it'll make him leave every time."

Prentiss nodded, mildly horrified; Morgan picked up his phone and started dialling.

"One of the victims was out for his bachelor party, and another one out with just the guys. What's the only temptation that's gonna lure these men away from each other?"

"A woman," Prentiss nodded. "Pearce was right."

"JJ –" said Morgan, into his cell. "I think you're gonna want to hear this…"

0o0

"Yeah – ok," said JJ, listening to Morgan's antelope theory. "He's right here with me – thanks."

She hung up; Detective LaMontagne looked at her expectantly.

"What's goin' on?" he asked.

"The UnSub we're looking for is a woman," said JJ.

They scanned the heavily populated bar in a very different light.

0o0

"You really didn't have to walk me back to the hotel," said JJ, as she and Detective LaMontagne strolled along the street.

"Now what kind gentleman would I be if I let a young woman – a guest of my department no less – walk the streets of New Orleans alone at night?" he grinned. "Particularly with a serial killer on the loose."

"Even if she'd be more interested in you than me?" JJ asked, enjoying his company.

"Even if," LaMontagne smiled.

They were passing an alley that led to the back of the hotel, and movement caught his eye.

"Hey," he said, and JJ stopped beside him, turning to look. "Ain't that your agent?"

JJ peered into the gloom of the alley, where two people were enthusiastically making out against the wall.

"Ain't he supposed to be in Texas?" LaMontagne asked.

JJ nodded, numbly; she was at a loss. This was very much not like Reid: ignoring a work call, making out with strange women in alleys… Perhaps his drink had been spiked – and with a female serial killer on the loose, luring her male victims off the main drag…

She had been about to march down the alley and escort him to his room when she caught a glimpse of the woman he was pressing against the alley wall.

Agent Pearce.

Well, that was unexpected.

JJ was so stunned that she didn't make a move, even when a laughing Agent Pearce pulled Reid through the back door of the hotel, a goofy smile plastered all over his face. She stared after them, rooted to the spot.

"Well I'll be," LaMontagne whistled, shaking her out of her shocked state.

"You can't mention this," said JJ. LaMontagne raised an eyebrow, but something of the urgency of her tone reached him and he stayed quiet. "Spencer's going through a rough patch," she said, a note of pleading creeping into her voice. "He was abducted – we didn't know if we'd ever get him back –"

"I won't say anythin'," said LaMontagne, firmly. "Besides, everyone's entitled to a little fun now and then."

He glanced after the departed agents ruefully.


	7. New Friends

**Chapter 7 – New Friends**

**Essential Listening – Breathe Me, Sia**

0o0

She smelled of strawberries.

It was all he could think about as his hands and mouth explored her creamy, soft skin.

He didn't remember how dancing with Agent Pearce had so abruptly evolved into _this_, and frankly, he didn't care. He couldn't even remember the walk back to the hotel, except that it had taken considerably longer than it should have, since they were both so distracted.

The itch that had been his constant companion since those long, dreadful days in Georgia had left him, and he almost delirious with gratitude – however temporary the reprieve might prove.

The woman in his arms consumed his every thought.

Her fingers seemed to dance across his skin, leaving tight trails of goosebumps in their wake. He shivered as they traced delicate patterns on his arms – his stomach – his chest.

She sighed into his mouth as his questing hands responded in kind, stroking her impossibly soft skin, slipping beneath the light fabric of her blouse.

He could feel her fumbling with his belt as he pulled her shirt buttons open, her kisses scorching him as they moved across his neck.

He breathed in the scent of her hair, with its tantalising strawberry aroma; it surrounded him as he pulled her impossibly closer.

It made him think of summers as a child, under the baking Nevada sun, hunting amongst the straw for velvety, scarlet treasure. More fruit had always ended up in his mouth than in the basket he was supposed to be filling, the irresistible sweetness of each strawberry running in rivulets down his chin as he devoured every last one.

He wanted to devour _her_.

They were kissing deeply now, hands grasping at each others' clothes, flesh, hair – tangling with one another, desperate for another moment of contact. Her breath was hot on his neck as she fumbled with his shirt.

He regarded her for a moment, and she wound her arms around his neck with that easy smile on her lips, sending him somewhere dark and needy.

His mind reeled drunkenly as he pressed kisses into her neck – his hair must have tickled her, because she laughed, the sound bursting joyfully into the room. He laughed too, at nothing in particular, and suddenly they were falling, falling into one another, down onto the bed.

0o0

Grace shifted comfortably in the sheets, the sleeping man beside her providing a comfortable and reassuring warmth.

For all her jokes she really hadn't expected anything to come of dancing with Dr Reid – but perhaps it had been inevitable. They were both far drunker than they should have been, given the circumstances.

It felt like forever since anyone had taken her to bed, and she couldn't find any fault with the way they had spent the evening. She had certainly needed it, and from the look of Dr Reid he'd needed it too.

She had a suspicion that they had both had the kind of year a person would rather forget.

And he wasn't exactly hard on the eye, either.

The buzz of the alcohol was fading now, and her thoughts were turning to the practicality of events. She hoped it wouldn't make her work life too complicated. She liked Dr Reid, despite the erratic behaviour she had seen so far, and she didn't want to jeopardise what could be a promising friendship – or, for that matter – her working relationship with the rest of the team.

She smiled wryly at the ceiling. Her old Governor – if he ever found out about it – would have nailed her to the wall. She was supposed to be starting over, getting a clean slate with these people – tracking down serial killers and other nefarious people, making a difference – not sleeping with the members of her new team.

Hell, she'd only met the man the day before.

She sighed, knowing there was no use worrying about it now. She would deal with whatever she'd brought on herself in the morning.

A plaintive whimper broke through her thoughts, and she half turned in the darkness. Reid was struggling against some unseen foe, clutching her closer in his fear.

"Spencer?" she asked, softly, concerned.

"No, please, I don't want it, I don't want it!" he cried out, trying to escape his tormentor.

"Spencer," she called again, turning fully into his arms and grasping his shoulder. His skin was clammy to the touch and he was glistening with cold sweat.

"No, please," he whimpered, and the terror in his voice made Grace's blood run cold.

"No, I don't – I want – no – no – _no_ – NO!"

"Spencer!"

He fought against her as he woke and the nightmare fully left him, holding her tightly as he realised where he was – and who he was with.

He stared at her in the half-light, fear and horror mixed in his eyes. Grace maintained her hold on his arms, suddenly afraid that he might bolt from the room as he was, naked and terrified.

Fleetingly, she imagined explaining that to the rest of the team.

_Better for all concerned if he stays here_, she decided.

"It's ok," she said, gently. "It was a dream…"

He frowned, still breathing heavily, and pulled away from her. He drew his knees up to his chin and stared at the far wall, the sheet wrapping itself around his legs. Grace sat up, watching him carefully: something seemed to be welling up inside of him, and he was fighting to keep it hidden.

"It wasn't just a dream…" he said, so softly that she almost missed it.

His fingers were curled so tightly around his legs that they were almost completely white, his knuckles jutting out starkly against his pale skin.

"I'm sorry?" she asked, afraid of what he was about to tell her. Suddenly his odd behaviour and the way the team looked at him when they thought he wasn't looking made a lot more sense.

"It wasn't a dream," he said again, clearing his throat. It was as if each syllable took something away from him.

Grace stayed silent, unsure how to help her friend.

Reid cleared his throat again.

"We were… we were in Georgia," he began, barely louder than a whisper. In the quiet of the hotel room it sounded brash and harsh. "There was a…" he coughed. "This guy was murdering what he called 'sinners' – they were just ordinary people – posting their deaths on the internet…" He shivered, involuntarily. "We didn't know what we were dealing with.

"He was – he had a fractured psyche…" he continued, haltingly, frowning deeply. "There were three –" he coughed again, as if the words were choking him – "Three of them… Hankel, his sadistic father and an 'angel'. He thought he was an _angel_."

His voice was cracking with emotion and Grace found herself scooting closer to him; she wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

For a moment he didn't appear to notice her; a strange look crossed his features, but he made no move to pull away.

"They – _he_ –" he took a breath. "JJ and I went to interview him – we thought he was just a potential witness – we had no idea until we got there. He ran out the back… I told her we should – we should split up. There was no cell signal and we couldn't just _leave_ – he was on a psychotic break…

"JJ went into the barn – I went round the back… I could hear them in the corn, arguing…" he swallowed again and reordered his thoughts. "Him. I could hear_ him_ arguing… JJ – in the barn – there were these dogs – I heard her scream, and gunshots – I ran. I was so _stupid_.

His voice cracked and Grace gave his shaking shoulders a squeeze.

"I was _so_ stupid – I thought she was…" he took another deep breath and rested his head against her shoulder. It was as if he was drowning, and each breath was a vital gulp of air. "He knocked me down and that's when I… he was both people at once – I didn't know about Raphael – the angel. Half of him wanted to shoot me, right there in the field – kept saying I was a demon, I'd come to test them – the other half tried to s-stop him."

Now that he had begun, words were beginning to tumble out of him in a rush, as though he couldn't keep them in any longer.

"He took me to this place – a graveyard – he tied me up… he h-hurt me… made me choose his next victim… made me watch them die…

"Tobias – the one that wanted to save me – he kept trying to help me… kept giving me –" he opened and closed his mouth soundlessly for a moment, as if the words were too hard for him. "He gave me Dilaudid," he managed, quieter than ever. "Said it would make it bet-better."

He rubbed at flesh of his inner arms and Grace closed her eyes, understanding.

"He – I… I saw my Mom… she's sick…" He sounded so lost and alone when he said it, Grace's heart ached for him. She caught one of his absently clawing hands and twined her fingers with his; he gripped her hand like a lifeline.

"He said I had to pay for my sins," said Reid, softly. "Made me get a shovel…" he shuddered against her, and Grace felt sick, wondering how he could have borne so much without breaking. "I saw the torches when I was digging the – my – grave… I distracted him, got his gun…

"I shot him," he whispered, his voice wavering. "He was dying – he was Tobias again… he asked if I thought he'd get to see his Mom again… he thanked me. Actually th-thanked me…"

Hot tears began to roll down Grace's neck.

"Because you saved him," she said softly. "You set him free."

Reid didn't seem to notice.

"When he was – the drugs and the pain – it – I died," Grace's grip on him tightened. "I think – I _know_ – I died," he murmured. "And it felt _better_. Like nothing could hurt me anymore – I was glad…

"But he brought me back – gave me C.P.R. – and it was like the world snapped back into focus… _Everything_ mattered – I was cold, and scared, and everything hurt, but I was _alive_." He took a deep, shuddering breath, and when he finally spoke his voice was choked with tears. "And I took that from him."

"You saved him," she repeated, firmly. "He was stuck in his own head with unimaginable evil and you set him free – Spencer –"

He curled into her, great sobs wracking his body.

"It's ok, Spencer, it's ok," she mumbled into his hair, privately certain that it really wasn't. "Just let it go…" she murmured, rubbing circles on his back.

She wondered whether he had let his guard down enough to let any of this out before and held him tighter, marvelling that anyone so outwardly brittle looking could keep all of this inside them and not simply shatter.

"I can't stop," he choked, as his sobs began to subside. "I tried, but I can't – I'm scared, Grace – I'm scared it's going to eat me alive."

"You're stronger than it," Grace told him, firmly. "Look, I'm sorry and all, but my arm's gone to sleep."

Reid mumbled something that sounded like an apology and pulled away from her; she grimaced as the blood flow returned to her limb.

"Here," she said, lying back down and pulling the sheets around them both; he settled against her almost shyly, embarrassed both by his candour and their nudity.

He watched her eyes in the darkness, afraid – she supposed – of what she might say. He shuddered abruptly and stared at his hands.

They were shaking uncontrollably.

"They won't stop," he said, in a small voice. "Unless I…"

Grace took his hands, lacing her fingers with his.

"The way you were holding on to your knees I'm surprised they aren't bruised," she said. "Quite apart from anything else, I'd imagine part of this is pins and needles."

"It isn't normally this bad," he admitted. "But it's not all needles and pins."

Grace nodded, sadly.

"How long?"

"Yesterday evening – b-before dinner… I can usually go for two days, but –"

Grace shook her head.

"Since Georgia."

"A couple of months," he admitted, miserably.

"Have you slept the night through, since?"

"Only when I…" he looked away from her, ashamed.

"Self-medicate?"

Reid nodded, self-consciously.

"I see the on-site counsellor every week," he mumbled, defensively. "And I passed my psych' eval'…"

Grace snorted.

"Yeah," she said. "But we _all_ cheat on those."

He offered her a slight smile.

"There is that," he said.

"So, really you haven't spoken to anyone about this?"

"Not really," he admitted, heavily. "I wanted to deal with it on my own. Ethan tried to talk to me about –" he glanced at his arm. "But that's it… I think the others are ignoring it."

"Oh, love, you know as well as I do that they're trying to protect you," said Grace, and he bit his lip, acknowledging what was probably true.

There was a pensive silence – then:

"It's weird," said Reid, quietly, studying the sheet in front of him. "There's no way I could talk about this with any of the team, but with you…" He glanced up at her, then back down to the fabric. "It's much easier to talk to you."

"You haven't known me for very long," Grace said, fairly. "You don't have to worry that you're letting me down." He met her eyes and Grace caught the flash of pain there. "Not that you are," she assured him, firmly. "What you've been through beggars belief – anyone would be struggling right now."

"You think so?" he asked, in a small, doubtful voice.

"Daft thing," she said, rubbing his arm; he gave a wet chuckle.

They were silent for a few minutes, content to no longer be alone in the dark. Grace felt Spencer's hands beginning to tremble against her chest; she pulled him closer as he fought to control the tremors that were threatening to take him over. Accepting the tears that were coursing down his cheeks and onto her naked body, she stroked his back again, mumbling words of comfort into his hair.

When the shaking had passed and his breathing had quietened, he shifted against her – raising himself up on one elbow so that he could see her face.

"You won't tell anyone?" he asked, quietly.

"I won't," she assured him. "Though you should."

He nodded, unable to stop himself looking away.

"You're a very clever man, Spencer," she said, softly. "You've got to know it's killing you."

He nodded and sighed.

"I know it is," he admitted. "I know I need help…"

"I hear admitting that is one of the hardest things."

He chewed his lip, thinking deeply.

"When we get back to Quantico…" he looked at her. "You really believe I can do this, don't you?"

"Yes," she said, simply. "You've already decided to get help – and help yourself. It's not going to be easy," she added. "But, let's face it, nothing about this job is easy, and you still turn up every day, right?"

Reid appeared to be thinking this over; he shifted position again, settling back down against her chest. Grace allowed herself to relax, drowsy now.

"Grace?"

"Mmm?"

"Will you be here when I wake up?"

"Yes."

He nuzzled his face into her neck.

"Thank you," he mumbled, and Grace listened as his breathing calmed and slowed, and he finally fell asleep.

Careful not to wake him, she wrapped the sheets more firmly around her damaged new friend and settled herself down beside him, watching over him while he slept.

0o0o0o0

He rose to wakefulness slowly that morning, feeling safer and more relaxed than he had in a very long time.

Grace shifted slightly in her sleep and he opened his eyes slightly, remembering the events of the night before. He supposed he ought to be embarrassed, particularly now that the comforting bubble of alcohol had dissipated, but instead he felt oddly content.

He was aware that at some point in the near future he ought to shower, and that it would only be a matter of time before his hands started shake, but right in that instant he couldn't be bothered to care.

The woman beside him was warm and comfortable, and had stayed with him through the night, soft and stable as he fell apart… As an agent, she should have reported him immediately – and possibly called for an ambulance – but she hadn't.

She had held his hand in the darkness and told him that everything would be ok.

Oddly, and for no reason he could fathom, when _she_ said it, he believed her.

Grace's cell phone chirruped noisily from the table and she groaned, reaching blindly for it and fumbling with the controls until it stopped.

She lay back and glared at the ceiling.

"Remind me not to get drunk on a school night again, ok?" she said, and he chuckled.

"Two out of three, right?"

Grace cracked a smile that looked like it hurt.

"My Gov' would be proud."

She glanced over at him and – unexpectedly – ruffled his hair in a friendly sort of way.

He found himself smiling back at her.

"Urgh," she said. "We should probably get up."

Reid nodded and rolled out of bed, sitting back down abruptly as his own hangover hit him.

"Argh."

"Here," she said, passing him a small bottle of orange pills. "Vitamin C – it'll help more than you think."

He took a couple gratefully and began pulling on his rumpled clothes.

Grace was rummaging in her backpack.

"Where's your go-bag?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"I came here straight from the airport in DC," she explained, her back to him. "And the daft bastards at the airline lost my luggage."

Reid grimaced.

"That sucks."

"Yep."

He looked away, suddenly feeling that he was intruding.

"I – uh – about last night…" he began, but Grace interrupted, turning to him with a smile.

"It's ok," she told him. "We both needed it, and I don't expect a repeat performance, or anything."

"I feel like I used you," he admitted, ashamed.

Grace laughed.

"If I'd objected you wouldn't have made it into the room," she said, and he snorted. "Anyway, my old unit held fast to the tenet of 'what goes in the field, stays in the field'."

He cleared his throat, embarrassed.

"Ok," he said, and managed to meet her gaze. "So…" he started, aiming to lighten the mood. "Does this make us friends?"

"Friends," she smiled, planting a light kiss on his cheek. She studied him for moment. "You know, if you ever need to talk, or a hug – or even someone just to be quiet with – come and find me."

"I might just take you up on that," he said, gratefully. "Grace?" he asked, pausing by the door. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"This…" he made an expansive gesture with the shoes in his hand. "Helping me – you've only just met me."

For a few moments Grace frowned, and he was afraid that he'd offended her.

"I went through a bit of a rough patch a little while ago," she said, slowly. "And it felt like I was completely alone. I asked the people I cared about for help – all I would have needed was a hug, or a talk… and I _know_ they couldn't just drop everything… but I begged them for help, and no-one came."

She looked up at him then and he saw something fierce in her manner.

"I want you to know that you're not alone in the dark."

"Thank you," he said, unsure how to react to her admission. "If you ever need someone…" he offered.

"I'll know where to come," she nodded.

"Ill – uh – see you at the station?"

Another nod.

"Great," he said, and hurried across the corridor, glad that it had been deserted.

He felt lighter this morning than he had done in months, more centred.

For the first time in a long while, he met his own eyes in the bathroom mirror.

He stared at the dark bruises underneath his eyes, trying to remember when he had become so pale and drawn.

He looked weak and weary; he marvelled at his friends' tolerance of him. Ethan was right – there was no way anyone could have missed it.

He took a steadying breath as he did up his tie.

He was going to beat this.

0o0o0o0

"Morning," said Grace as she dropped her bag in an empty seat. The stations was bustling with activity despite the early hour, everyone desperate to get ahead of their killer. She guessed that she hadn't been the only one to skip breakfast that morning.

Prentiss and Morgan glanced up from their paperwork and nodded, looking weary.

"Long night?" she asked, wincing on their behalf.

"We got back at dawn," Prentiss explained, stretching.

"Jet sleep," said Morgan. "It's not like real sleep."

Grace grimaced and gestured at the reports in front of them.

"Want me to take a couple of those?" she asked. Prentiss slid a few over to her with a grateful smile.

"Have a good night in the Quarter?" asked JJ, walking over with another stack of files.

"Yeah – I ended up in a blues bar, it was pretty good."

JJ nodded, and Grace turned back to her paperwork, wondering why JJ was giving her such a curious look.

She turned away from them to meet Detective LaMontagne as he came down the stairs.

"Hey," said JJ.

"So I've alerted the department, updated the B.O.L.O.," he said, striding purposefully towards his desk.

"Good," said JJ, following him. "We need to set up a press conference."

"We're not makin' a media spectacle outta this," said LaMontagne, annoyed.

"People need to know that this killer is a woman."

LaMontagne stopped abruptly and turned to her, clearly frustrated.

"What?" JJ asked.

"Listen," he said, in a low voice. "Tourists are just startin' to filter back here."

"That's not the issue," JJ frowned.

"I can't create mass hysteria in a city tryin' to rebuild," LaMontagne argued. "Besides, we'd be playin' right into her hands."

"So be it," JJ shrugged, stubbornly.

They both sighed, neither wanting to argue.

"Look," said JJ, almost gently. "I'm trying not to go above your head here…" she trailed off, pointedly.

Detective LaMontagne sighed again.

"Yeah, I got that," he admitted.

"Then set up the press conference," said JJ, in a tone that could not be argued with. She followed him into the back of the station.

"Hey, you guys back from Galveston?" asked Reid, coming in. Morgan and Prentiss looked up from their files.

"First light this morning," said Morgan, annoyed. "Where were you?"

Grace kept her features impassive; fortunately, neither Prentiss nor Morgan were looking at her.

"Uh, I was out with a friend, I already told you," said Reid, exuding false cheeriness. It wasn't working. He rummaged in his messenger bag, avoiding eye contact.

"I called you four times," said Prentiss, unimpressed.

"I didn't have any cell phone reception, so I didn't get your message until late," Reid lied.

Grace marvelled at him: lying was clearly not his strong suit.

"Ri-ight," said Prentiss, unconvinced. She turned back to the files in front of her.

Reid glanced at Grace, who gave him the tiniest of shrugs.

"So, what's going on?" he asked.

"Our UnSub's a woman," Morgan announced, giving a look.

Reid looked at Grace.

"You were right," he said, with the barest quirk of an eyebrow.

_Get in!_ thought Grace. Out loud, she said:

"Do try not to sound so surprised."

She smiled lightly to let him know she wasn't annoyed.

"Sorry."

Grace looked up as Agent Hotchner walked in, grateful for any intrusion into the frosty atmosphere at the table.

"They just found another body in the Quarter," he said.

Grace rubbed her face, frustrated.

"Not much of a cycle," Prentiss grumbled, as they gathered their things.

"We have _got_ to get this girl," said Morgan.


	8. Female Serial Killer

**Chapter 8 – Female Serial Killer**

**Essential Listening: Who's that Chick?, David Guetta and Rihanna**

0o0

The team studied the fresh body lying on the pavement sadly.

"Throat's been cut," said Morgan, bending down for a closer look. "He's been disembowelled, too."

"Reeks of booze," said Gideon, joining him. "It's more than a pattern."

"Only this time she cut off the earlobe," Morgan observed, pointing it out.

"She's sticking to the Ripper's paradigm," said Reid, peering over Morgan's shoulder; Grace nodded.

"What d'you mean?" asked Prentiss.

"In one letter of correspondence, Jack the Ripper promised to cut the earlobe off his next victim," Reid explained, obligingly. "And he did."

"It was the one day that he killed twice," Grace added, grimly.

"So she's going to kill again by the end of the day," said Gideon.

"Ok," said Prentiss. "What do we know about female serial killers?"

"Basically, you have two types," said Gideon.

_Three,_ thought Grace, automatically.

"The Sante Kimes model," said Morgan. "Cold, calculating. Preys on men for money, takes her time building relationships."

"Don't forget the comfort killers," said Grace. "Women who think they're doing their victims – or the world – a favour."

"It's more likely that we're dealing with the Aileen Wuornos archetype," observed Reid. "Motivated by paranoia and fear, luring men with sex."

"Well," said Gideon. "This UnSub's organised. She follows a routine: she meets men in a bar, flirts with 'em over drinks… then suggests that they consummate the evening in an alley."

"Looks like rage is a factor here, too," said Grace. "Which speaks to whatever her trigger might have been."

Morgan nodded.

"We need to be on those streets," he said.

"Officers brought me this," said Detective LaMontagne, bringing over another typed letter in an evidence bag.

Prentiss took it from him and read it through, frustration evident in her voice.

"_Dear Boss, by now I have rid the world of one more. So many men, so little time. I hope you don't mind the mess. They make it so easy, I just can't help myself. Yours truly._"

"What?" asked Gideon: Grace had been frowning to herself. She looked up, conscious of their eyes on her.

"It's – the tone of the letter feels odd: less like a taunt, more like she's… I don't know, trying to be inclusive – sharing the joke," she explained, slowly. "All the references to 'mess', 'ridding' the world… derisory comments about men… it's like she thinks she's cleaning up."

"You think she might be a house cleaner?" Morgan asked, surprised.

"Maybe she didn't start that way," Grace reasoned. "But now…"

"It would explain the increase in the rate of killings," Prentiss mused. "She thinks she's doing the world a favour."

"Whatever she is," said Gideon. "We need to be out there, looking for her."

0o0

Another hot night in the French Quarter of New Orleans, and the clubs were heaving again, despite the killings.

The team was out in pairs, working their way through the crowds, keeping their eyes open. They'd been instructed to dress more casually so as not to raise alarm, and Pearce was having a hard time spotting the others as she lounged by a bar with Agent Hotchner, whose idea of dressing down was apparently just taking off his tie.

"How're you settling in?" he asked, his eyes on the crowd.

"After two days in a random city?" Pearce asked and Hotchner gave her a rare smile.

"That's the job," he said.

"It's certainly different," she allowed, following a vivacious blonde walking across the plaza, quite definitely on the prowl.

She reflected that this would be a good deal easier if everyone in the French Quarter wasn't on the hunt for something.

"Everyone's been very welcoming," she said.

Hotchner nodded.

"Moving jobs is hard enough," he observed. "Without moving continents at the same time. If you need anything when we're back in Quantico, my office door is always open."

"Thank you," she said. "I'll let you know when the culture-shock kicks in."

She heard him chuckle as she spotted JJ and Detective LaMontagne moving through the crowd.

0

"So we're lookin' for a woman who'll approach men – comfortable being the aggressor," said LaMontagne as they worked their way through the crowd.

JJ nodded.

"And I'm guessing she'd have to be quite attractive in order to lure them away," said JJ, looking around.

There were just too many people in the Quarter: too many targets and too many potential predators.

She caught Reid's eye through the crowd; he looked away, feigning concentration on the crowd.

For a moment, she wondered what had drawn Pearce and Reid together the previous evening – and whether this episode was going to be another nail in her friend's rapidly closing coffin.

She shook the thought from her mind and focussed on the crowd.

0

Morgan scanned the patrons at the bar, reflective and alert.

"Most of the women are out in groups," he said to Reid. "So keep your eyes open for someone on their own."

They watched the people around them, trying not to look conspicuous.

0

"_So many men, so little time_," said Gideon, thoughtfully.

He and Prentiss were leaning against one of the many balconies above the heaving courtyard. "As if she's on a quest… to wipe out the race."

"Or the father who molested her?" Prentiss theorised, speculatively. "Some people think Jack the Ripper mutilated women after his mother sexually abused him for years."

"Yet for someone so enraged this UnSub seems oddly apologetic for leaving a bloody crime scene," Gideon said, moving through the crowd and down into the courtyard. "Why?"

Prentiss gave a considered half-shrug.

"That might be what LaMontagne figured out right before he died," she said, following him.

0

"You've got to admit these guys are making it pretty easy," said JJ as she and Detective LaMontagne continued their circuit of the lower bar. "I wouldn't follow a stranger into an alley no matter how wasted I was."

"Yeah, but you're not a man," said LaMontagne. "Testosterone'd follow a woman to Thailand, barefoot. It's just a fact."

Their eyes moved through the crowd as they walked.

0

"You give that newest letter to Reid," said Gideon, from their vantage point at the edge of the throng. "He knows that Ripper case inside-out – he may see something we're missing."

"I don't think – uh –" Prentiss began, with a grimace.

Gideon turned to her.

"What is it?"

Prentiss looked at him for a moment before shaking her head.

"Uh – nothing."

Gideon shook his head, too, frustrated.

"Come on," he said. "You think I'm not aware something's going on with him?"

He turned and walked away into the crowd.

"Any luck?" Pearce asked, coming up behind her with Hotchner. Startled, Prentiss shook herself.

"Nothing," she said. "You?"

"There are just too many people," said Hotchner. "And whoever she is our UnSub doesn't want to be seen."

They shared a dark look before continuing their perambulation through the crowd.

0

"You gonna tell me why you missed that flight to Galveston?" Morgan asked, abruptly.

It was a question that seemed to have been weighing on him all day.

"I already told you," said Reid, evasively. "There was no cell reception."

"Right," said Morgan, and Reid wished he was better at lying.

He met his friend's eyes, trying to look innocent.

"What?"

"Reid, any time you wanna come up with a better answer I'm standing right here," said Morgan, bluntly.

Reid looked back out into the crowd – mostly to avoid Morgan's accusatory glare – but he caught a glimpse of a young woman dressed in red, moving aggressively through the crowd.

"Dark curls, three o'clock," he said, and Morgan followed his gaze.

"I got it," Morgan said, with a small nod of acknowledgement. The woman was staring at a group of men across the courtyard.

"She's eyeing up those men outside that bar," he said.

They watched as one of the men moved away from the group; the woman with dark hair followed him, hurrying to catch up as he made his way towards the mouth of a secluded alley.

"Let's go," said Morgan, and they made after her, keeping their distance until they could see what she might do.

She was closing on him, and he had no idea he was being followed – talking away on his phone as if the night held no danger for him.

Apparently, he was right.

"Danny!" the woman said, catching his arm; Morgan and Reid slowed their progress at the edge of the crowd. "You goofball," she said, holding something up. "You dropped your wallet back there."

"Thanks," said Danny, gratefully. "Next drink is on me."

The two agents relaxed a little, relieved that they hadn't had to intercede but frustrated that they still had no clue as to who the UnSub might be.

They joined Gideon and Prentiss in the middle of the teeming courtyard.

"Hey," said Morgan, grumpily. "We got nothin'."

"Well, day's almost over," said Gideon, checking his watch. "So if you're right we just ran out of time."

0o0

They walked up the alley, resigned to what they would find.

Two lovers engaged in a late night rendezvous had called it in in the early hours, and everyone was edgy this morning, frustrated that this was yet another death that they hadn't been able to prevent.

Detective LaMontagne was squatting by the corpse looking dejected. Grace felt for him. No one needed this many deaths on their manor.

She nearly stopped dead when she saw the corpse's face; she shared a hasty and stunned glance with Reid: it was the incredibly slimy man from 'Miss Dixie's'. Apparently he had been even less lucky last night.

"She's mockin' us," said Detective LaMontagne, straightening up.

"I know him – that is," said Grace, and everyone turned to look at her; Reid wisely stayed silent. "He was hitting on me in a bar two nights ago." She frowned, taking in the level of mutilation. "He was a total dick, actually – not that he deserved this."

She told them about the world's worst chat-up line and JJ grimaced.

"At least we're getting a better understanding of her victims," she said.

"Yeah," said Prentiss. "Desperate and kind of repulsive."

"Alpha males," Reid added, helpfully. Grace tried not to laugh.

"Or men who think they are, at least."

Prentiss gave her a small smile before turning back to the unfortunate corpse.

"She's true to her word," she said, sadly. "_By now I have rid the world of one more_."

Suddenly, Reid bent down, seeing something the others missed. He turned to the nearest C.S.U.

"Do you have any tweezers?" He took the proffered pair. "Thank you."

"What is that?" asked JJ, joining him.

"I have no idea…"

Bending again, he carefully lifted something white and square out of the victim's mouth: another letter, stained with the victim's blood.

"It's a note from the UnSub addressed to your father," said Reid.

"Let's see it," said Gideon, taking the page out of his hands.

"_Dear Boss_," he read. "_He wanted it, with a sharp tongue and vulgar hands. Thought you ought to know another one will soon get what he deserves. Yours truly._"

"An unfortunately accurate description," Grace muttered.

"It's weird," said Reid, frowning. "Typically, offenders write letters to be heard: Jack the Ripper bragged about not being caught. Yet this UnSub isn't using correspondence to flaunt her latest kill, only to explain why she did it."

"It's possible she considers herself a vigilante," said Prentiss, surprised. "That the men she's killing deserve to die."

"Then she's never going to stop," said Grace, in mild horror. "There's plenty like this one around – she's got herself a victim pool that'll never dry up."

"Will, maybe she was contacting your father – not because he was the lead detective on the case – but… she believes he'd understand," said Gideon.

"What, you think he knew her, somehow?" LaMontagne asked, nonplussed.

"Can you think of a woman in your Dad's life he helped through tough times?" JJ asked him. "Might be another police officer – I don't know, a prostitute he helped get off the street?"

"Nah," said LaMontagne. "He hasn't dealt with prostitutes since he worked sex crimes."

"The UnSub wrote: '_He was asking to be ripped. Just couldn't help myself'_, and _'He wanted it'_," said Reid, urgently. "What if she's mirroring the man who raped her?"

The team shifted, uncomfortable with this new thought.

"Where are the files stored from your sex crimes division?" Gideon asked.

"About the same place as homicide," said LaMontagne. "Most of it washed away."

"Did your Dad have a partner?" JJ asked.

"Yeah," said LaMontagne. "J. R. Smith. 'Smitty', they call him."

"He might remember something," said JJ.

"Yeah, but they had a fallin' out."

"What about?" asked Prentiss.

"I don't know," said LaMontagne. "They stopped talkin' when he left sex crimes – that was about nine years ago."

Grace raised an eyebrow.

_Interesting timing_, she thought

"The guy didn' even come to my Daddy's funeral, so…" Detective LaMontagne continued.

"You have a problem calling him?" Gideon asked.

"Not if it means breakin' this case," said LaMontagne, and frowned suddenly.

He bent down beside the man's body; he looked up at JJ, who was wearing latex gloves.

"Honey, may I borrow your hand for a minute?" he asked.

Together they turned over the man's hand, lifting it so the back of it was exposed. There was an admission stamp on it.

"I'll be damned," said LaMontagne, shaking his head in recognition.

"What is it?" Prentiss asked, as they all leaned in.

"The stamp on his hand," said LaMontagne, looking up at the assembled agents. "It's admission into Mon Cherie – it's a bar in the French Quarter."

"Oh, yeah?" said Reid.

"Yeah," said LaMontagne, letting go of the man's hand and standing up. "Nine years ago it was called 'Jones'."

They all stared at him, astonished.

That old drum beat started in the back of Grace's mind: the hunt was on, now.

The thrill of the chase: it was a beat that had always driven her, taking her down roads she didn't know; increasing in pace and volume until she had her perpetrator. It was something primal – something that she wasn't ever entirely sure that she could trust.

The beat – that thing that sang to her in the dark – had forced her to make choices that she regretted, and others that she never would.

It had taken her through woods, and fields, and city streets, and once into the hell that had been waiting in her own back garden.

It had never yet been wrong.

It was as if justice had a pulse, fierce and relentless.

Not for the first time, she wondered whether really she was more like the offenders she chased than she would like to admit.

She pushed the thought away, frowning.

"Bingo," said Gideon. "Get Garcia on the horn."

0o0

For the tenth time that day, Garcia's phone rang. She answered it, with her usual flair:

"Oh Captain, my Captain."

"I need you," said JJ, pacing an alley in the French Quarter.

"Anything: talk to me."

"Is there any newspaper reports about a rape in a bar called Jones?"

There was a pause as Garcia typed.

"Zilch," she said, disappointed.

"You sure?" asked JJ. "It would have been about nine years ago."

Garcia narrowed her parameters and frowned at the screen.

"Nada."

"Ok – uh –" JJ thought aloud. "Cross reference 'William LaMontagne' with 'Jones Bar'."

"Bullseye: police blotter. Answered a disturbance at Jones Bar in the French Quarter, February 19th, 1998," said Garcia, briskly. "Looks like it was during Mardi Gras."

"You are the best ever," said JJ, with a smile.

"Aw," said Garcia, grinning. "And you're the most perceptive."

0o0

He was sat at the table in the empty bar, nursing a whiskey. He didn't look pleased to see them.

"Smitty?" Detective LaMontagne asked, trying to be friendly. "How are you?"

He reached out a hand to his father's old partner, but 'Smitty' just looked at him as if he'd just found something unpleasant underneath his shoe.

The three agents watched as LaMontagne withdrew his hand; it had cost him to be gracious to a man that hadn't even bothered to attend his father's funeral.

"I hope you got a good reason for drudgin' this crap up," he said, with the air of a man whose time was being wasted.

Detective LaMontagne gave him a long look.

"Well, I was hopin' you remembered bein' called here with my Daddy, nine years ago."

"Is that a joke?" Smitty asked.

"No."

"My name's Jason Gideon, we're from the F.B.I.," said Gideon. "We're investigating a series of murders in the French Quarter."

Smitty shrugged, the very picture of inhospitability.

"What's that gotta do with me?"

"We need you to tell us what happened the night you and Detective LaMontagne responded to the call in this bar," said Prentiss, evenly.

Smitty looked at Detective LaMontagne Jr. and gave a wry sort of half-chuckle. His expression was accusatory, as if this whole situation had been orchestrated for LaMontagne's amusement.

Detective LaMontagne gazed back, unruffled.

"Am I missin' somethin' here?" he asked.

"You really don't know, do you?" Smitty asked, as if he was beginning to enjoy himself. "After that night, your Daddy tried to bring me up on sanctions."

Detective LaMontagne raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Why?"

"It was Mardi Gras." He said. "Some girl claimed she was raped. In this bar," he added, in case they were having trouble keeping up. "I wasn't buyin' it."

"What did she say happened to her?" JJ asked, arms folded.

"Brass backed _me_ up," said Smitty, radiating self-righteous smugness. "They ended up transferin' your Daddy out to shut him up."

"What happened here?" Prentiss asked, growing impatient with the odious little man.

"He almost cost me my career," said Smitty, plainly still bitter.

Gideon tried again:

"Do you mind telling us what happened?"

Smitty looked at him, annoyed.

"My best recollection, she said she was sittin' at the bar with two friends," he said, finally. "One of the boys asked her if she wanted to play some pool. Witnesses claimed she was up for anythin'."

"She followed him up here?" Prentiss asked, looking up the staircase that led up to the pool room.

"His friend not far behind," Smitty nodded. "She knew he was there," he added, disparagingly.

Prentiss gave the man a look of exasperation. Just because she knew the second man was there didn't mean she'd agreed to sleep with either of them, let alone both.

"That girl was a tease," said Smitty, oblivious. "She was lookin' for a good time. Can't blame a couple of guys for goin' along with that."

"Did she yell out for help?" JJ asked, a dark expression on her face that Smitty totally missed.

"She said she did," he said, dismissively. "But not a single person claimed that they heard her."

"That's what you registered as a disturbance?" Prentiss asked, disgusted.

"It was Mardi Gras," said Smitty, as if that explained everything. "Listen to me: that girl had enough beads hangin' from her neck to jewel a small city. Anyone exposes themselves that much in one day is not a credible witness in my book."

"But she wanted to press charges?" said Detective LaMontagne, who had thus far stayed tactfully silent.

"I told her it was a waste of time," said Smitty; and then he made the mistake of trying to fill up the angry silence emanating from LaMontagne and the assembled agents. "I knew one of the accused – he was a good kid. He didn't need the stink of that accusation."

They stared at him, appalled.

_Does this guy _know_ what he sounds like?_ thought Prentiss, angrily.

"So you protected a rapist?" Gideon asked, managing, somehow, to make the question seem reasonable. Prentiss wasn't fooled for a moment: he was just as disgusted as she and JJ were – he was just better at hiding it.

Smitty put down his drink and scoffed.

"Well, that right there was a bone of contention between his Daddy and I." He glanced at Detective LaMontagne, who had a hard look on his face. "As far as I was concerned, no such 'rape' ever took place. Now, you wanna tell me why you went and dragged this dirt back through my life?"

Gideon gave him a penetrating stare.

"You know the serial killer who's cutting up men in the French Quarter?" he asked. Smitty nodded. "She was your victim."

Smitty closed his eyes for a moment, unwilling to accept that he was at fault.

"We're tryin' to find her name," Detective LaMontagne explained, with creditable restraint.

Smitty, who was suddenly having a hard time meeting the young detective's gaze, shook his head.

"You don't even remember her name?" Prentiss demanded, sickened.

"It was nine years ago," he said, defensively.

"What about the name of the 'good kid' that raped her?" JJ asked.

Smitty hesitated, and LaMontagne took his moment.

"Smitty," he said, walking up to him. "You tell me right now or I'll file a new sanction against you – and I guarantee you this time it'll stick."


	9. The Demon Beat

**Chapter 9 – The Demon Beat**

**Essential Listening: The Hunger, by The Distillers**

0o0

They watched the young man from behind the glass of the interrogation room.

You could tell from the way he held himself that he thought he could do no wrong. He had got away with rape – maybe more than one, thanks to Smitty's dismissal of the case – and clearly felt that he was invincible.

He had been irreverent with both Prentiss and JJ, proving that he was not the sharpest tool in the box. He was playing right into their hands – he thought that he could control them – that they were 'only' women – and they would put that to good use.

"Mr Tibideaux, we need to ask you some questions about a disturbance you were involved with in 1998," said Prentiss, coolly.

Tibideaux shrugged.

"Don't know what you're talkin' bout."

Behind the glass, Grace rolled her eyes.

"At a bar called 'Jones'," JJ added, and they all watched the flash of recognition cross his arrogant features. "It was Mardi Gras," she added, helpfully.

He chuckled – actually _chuckled_.

"Well then, I must'a been drinkin' or somethin', 'cause I don't remember a thing," he said, oozing what Grace was sure he thought was confidence.

"We just need to know the name of your accuser," said Prentiss, gently. Grace suspected that the agent was seriously resisting the urge to hit the smug git.

"Look, I told you, I don't know what you talkin' 'bout," Tibideaux said, a hint of aggression colouring his voice.

"The statue of limitations is up," said JJ, pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation. "We just need a name."

He looked blankly back at her.

"Someone accuses me of rape," said Prentiss, sitting down across from him. "I'm gonna remember his name."

"Well, what can I tell you, cher?" Tibideaux drawled, under the impression that he was the powerful one in the room. "I guess she didn't make that good of an impression."

The agents behind the glass shifted in revulsion at the man's obvious contempt for his victim.

"Unlike yourself, right now," said Prentiss, and Grace admired her restraint.

"You know, I'm guessin' if someone _did_ do somethin' to that girl that night," he purred, oozing across the table. "Then she was probably askin' for it."

There was a kind of foul intensity about him, Grace reflected, grimacing. For a moment she wished that their girl had already caught up with him. She pushed the thought away, aware that it wasn't the sort of thing a police office – now an F.B.I. agent – should probably hope for.

"Maybe," he added. "Even liked it."

Unconsciously, as sometimes happened when she was frustrated, she took out her chagrin on the odious little man in the interview room. Underneath the table, his shoelaces quietly undid themselves and flowed back together seamlessly.

"Guy's not givin' up anythin'," said LaMontagne, clearly frustrated.

"Reid," said Agent Hotchner. "After the double murder, what was the Ripper's next move?"

Reid glanced at Grace.

"He mutilated Mary Kelly in her one-room flat until she was unrecognisable," he said, with a sense of defeat. "It's believed to be his most vicious kill of all."

"The one he broke pattern for," said Grace. "An evolution, of sorts."

"So she'll need privacy," said Hotch.

"And time to torture his victims before killing her," Morgan added. "Maybe we're not too late."

JJ put the crime scene photos of the French Quarter murders in front of Tibideaux, resplendent in their gore.

"She murdered these men," said JJ, softly, watching the sudden look of discomfort break across Tibideaux's face. "And I'm guessing it's only a matter of time before she works her way back to the one she really wants to kill."

Tibideaux looked up at her, real fear in his eyes.

"She make an impression now?" asked Prentiss.

0o0

Garcia answered on the first ring.

"Work me," she instructed.

"We have a name: 'Sarah Danlin'," said JJ. "I need an address."

"1141 Sherman Avenue," said Garcia, staring into cyberspace. "It looks like she was a med student at Tulane, but dropped out…"

"Lemme guess: February 1998," said JJ, writing hurriedly.

"Yeah."

"Thanks," said JJ, hanging up. "We got her," she told LaMontagne, handing him the notepad.

There was a crash from the interview room behind them; JJ moved out of the way as Agent Pearce hurried past, looking mildly sheepish.

Detective LaMontagne and JJ peered into the interview room: Mr Tibideaux had got to his feet to follow a young Sargeant through to the front desk and had plunged to the floor, taking the table with him. Somehow, his shoelaces had tangled themselves up during the interview.

0o0

They had been making out all the way up the stairs.

She closed the door behind them as he fumbled with her shirt.

"I'm John, by the way," he said, and she pushed him roughly against the rails of the bed.

"John," she said, letting the word roll off her tongue, as if she was tasting it. "Take off your clothes."

He gave her a predatory smile and started unbuttoning his shirt.

_Man, this girl is SMOKIN' hot_, he thought, as she moved purposefully towards him.

0o0

The team moved around the side of the apartment complex.

Grace had been told to stay at the back, and there she lurked, tense and alert, mentally cursing her lack of firearms certification.

Back home it wouldn't have been a problem, she had years of training under her belt, but here in the States she'd need to be recertified.

There were other options, too – it wasn't as though she actually needed a gun. In her old unit she wouldn't have hesitated to use her talents in this kind of situation. But this wasn't her old unit: this was the F.B.I..

Explaining how a sturdy looking light fitting had suddenly detached from the ceiling and fallen directly onto their offender did not sound like a conversation she needed to have.

_How would Agent Hotchner even write that up?_ she wondered.

She shook the thought away: she needed to concentrate.

She frowned, ignoring the old familiar beat that was pounding away in her mind; it was trying to push her forward, to the front of the group.

_This is their chase, not mine,_ she told it, but still it persisted at the back of her mind, like her own, personal demon drummer.

She followed Dr Reid around the back to cover the fire exit, staying low and silent in the hot night.

She hung back at the edge of the wall, painfully aware of how vulnerable she was without a gun.

Distantly, she heard Morgan kick down Sarah Danlin's front door.

She had to hand it to the team, they were certainly efficient.

0o0

John grinned up at the woman as she bound him to the bed; this looked like being his lucky night.

She sat astride him and he shifted restlessly.

"The things I'm gon' do to you," he drawled, lustfully.

"Me first," she said, looking hungry.

_Oh yeah, _he thought. _My lucky night._

0o0

They burst into the apartment, shouting and clearing each room; Grace followed closely behind them.

"She's not here," said LaMontagne, frustrated.

"Some people have suggested that Jack the Ripper killed Mary Kelly in a room he rented for the night," said Grace, looking around. "Gave him more time to take her apart."

Reid glanced at her, mildly annoyed, as if he had been about to say that.

"I'll have Garcia check Sarah Danlin's credit card accounts," said Morgan, dialling. "It's a long shot, but maybe we can chase a room back to her charge cards."

Grace ran her eyes over Sarah Danlin's furniture. It was kind of homey and incredibly bleak all at the same time, as if the soul of the place had been sucked out. She supposed that it had, really.

0o0

She was running her fingers over his chest now, teasing him, drawing the moment out.

He was more than ready for her, straining at his silken bonds.

He wasn't ready for the knife.

She cut into his chest, leaving a searing line of pain along the path of the blade.

He cried out, but she was looking at him as if Christmas had come early.

"What the hell did you do that for?" he demanded, suddenly a lot less into it.

"Shh," she purred, and he saw that predatory look he had thought so attractive return to her eyes.

A wave of fear washed over him as he realised that he couldn't escape: she had tied the ropes around his wrists and ankles tightly; they wouldn't budge.

"You're crazy!" he choked, beginning to panic.

"You never did explain these things you could do to me," she said, in a seductive voice, her dark hair falling across her face, casting dark shadows.

John struggled against his bonds, but it was no use.

He was completely at her mercy.

0o0

"Souvenirs," said Agent Hotchner, plucking leaflets off the table. "These are leaflets from bars in the French Quarter – this one's for Mon Cherie," he handed it to Morgan, who sighed.

"She's trawlin' for victims in the place where it all began."

"She can't move on," said Hotchner. "The rape isn't the whole story – I bet there's a history of sexual abuse that contributes to her rage as well."

"It's almost like by taking on the Ripper persona she was trying to kill something inside herself," Reid reflected, darkly.

Morgan's phone rang, making them all jump, tense as they were.

"Yeah, Momma, what have you got?"

They all waited for Garcia's information, standing around Sarah Danlin's sad apartment, each of them on tenterhooks.

"Oh Babygirl, you never disappoint," said Morgan, and Grace felt the beat within her speed up a notch. "Thank you." He turned to Detective LaMontagne. "Royal Ruby Inn?"

"It's about two blocks from here," said LaMontagne.

"Let's go."

Aware that she had her next victim, they ran.

0o0

John shivered as the pain of cut after cut seared through his flesh. She was taking her time with him, playing – enjoying her sport.

He'd tried shouting – hadn't been able to avoid it as the knife had sliced through his chest – but no one had come to his rescue.

No one would hear him. They had chosen this hotel room with that in mind.

He struggled beneath her, panicked and bloody, as she trailed the knife upwards towards his neck…

John had never been a religious man, but here, with this evil, crazy woman playing with his life, he prayed hard, unable to take his eyes off hers, with their zealous, excited glint.

"Please, please, please," he begged her, over and over.

"Stop your bitching," she said, amused. "You _asked_ for it."

John closed his eyes, terrified.

He heard the door bang back against the wall and his eyes flew open in hope.

0o0

"F.B.I.!" Agent Hotchner shouted, aiming at the back of Sarah Danlin's head.

"Drop the knife!" Morgan commanded, moving to her other side.

"Drop the weapon!"

Grace craned to see over Detective LaMontagne's shoulder; he and Reid were forming an effective barrier in the doorway.

"He wanted it, he got it," the woman on the bed snarled, her knife at the man's throat.

He was tied to the bed posts, bloody and shivering. Grace called for a paramedic on her radio as Detective LaMontagne moved into the room.

"Put it down, now," Morgan instructed, steel in his voice.

"What are you waiting for?" Danlin asked, turning to face the gun barrels behind her.

Grace caught a glimpse of her face beyond the agents in front of her, and saw a woman unhinged.

"Ma'am, we don't wanna shoot you," said Morgan, calmly.

"Be such a shame to waste this," she drawled, and they could see the madness in every plane of her face. "Do you want it, too?"

"What I want is for you to put that gun down," said Morgan, levelly, not moving an inch.

The man on the bed swallowed as the knife pressed against his throat; beads of sweat trickled down his bloodied skin.

The demon beat at the back of Grace's mind took on a more insistent tone.

Could she make Danlin drop the knife without any of the others noticing? Could she guarantee it wouldn't hit her latest victim?

"Come on," Danlin purred. "Don't fight it!"

Could they take her down safely if she did?

"Sarah, we don't want to hurt you," said Agent Hotchner, softly. Everyone tensed, ready for her to lash out.

"Men," she hissed.

"Sarah," said Detective LaMontagne, softly, quietly putting his weapon down. "My name's Will LaMontagne Jr. You knew my Daddy?"

Danlin paused restlessly above the terrified man on the bed.

"Yes," she whispered, glancing at the detective from beneath her hair.

"Hey there," he said, gently. "You trusted him, so trust me."

"Where is he?" she cried, a tear falling running down her cheek.

"The storm took him," he said, and she moaned in grief. "Come on now, it's over," he urged, and she handed him the knife, unable to process the senseless death of the only man she trusted anymore.

"It's over," said LaMontagne, taking her in his arms as she broke down.

Grace watched him half carry her down the hallway and into the night.

She moved to check the man on the bed as the team put their guns away.

He had passed out from sheer relief.

She started to undo his wrists as Hotchner lightly shook his shoulder. The drumming thing in her mind was silent now, satisfied.

He stared up at them, groggily.

"What's your name?" Grace asked, gently

"John…"

0o0

Detective LaMontagne watched them load John into the ambulance disconsolately. He had helped Sarah Danlin into the back of a police car ten minutes earlier and he'd thought he would feel better.

He didn't.

After so long carrying his father's burden, now he simply felt numb.

"Hey," said JJ, leaning against the car, beside him.

"Hey there."

"The medic says that our victim's gonna be ok," she said, and he nodded, mutely. "I heard what you did in there," she said, gently. "Your Dad would be really proud."

He smiled wanly for a moment, taking what small comfort he could.

"It's weird," he said. "I spent all this time focussed on closing this case for him, and now it's over…"

"Yeah."

"I thought I'd feel happy, but I jus' feel lost."

" 'Cause you gotta move on," said JJ, firmly.

He smiled at her, making a joke of it.

"What, and now you're leavin'?" he said, and she looked up at him in surprise. "How will I survive a woman like you goin' so far away?"

JJ smiled, flattered.

"Well, despite what you may have heard," she said, digging in her pocket. "Cell phones can be very good for your health."

His smile widened as he took her card.

"See you," she said, and he watched her walk away, smiling to himself.

_Well now…_ he thought.

0o0

Reid watched Ethan play in the dark club.

His friend looked happy, at home with himself – in his own element. He wasn't the same boy Spencer remembered growing up with, but then, neither was he.

Today, he could even be happy for him.

If Ethan could find a way to be, then he could, too.

He looked up as Gideon sat down in the chair next to him, and he crossed his arms, suddenly uncomfortable. He knew what was coming, and there were questions that he still didn't want to answer.

Not yet.

"How'd you find me?" he asked, wondering briefly whether Grace had told him where he was. He wouldn't blame her if she had.

"You're not all that hard to profile," said Gideon, and he smiled.

Reid waited quietly, reassured.

Watching Ethan for a moment, Gideon remarked:

"Your friend is good."

Reid nodded. He really was.

It would almost have been a shame if Ethan _had_ stayed in the F.B.I.. He might never have found out that he had this in him.

"I missed that 'plane on purpose," said Spencer, coming to a decision. If he was going to have to explain then it would be on his terms. He would take responsibility. He owed it to Gideon; to the whole team.

"I know," Gideon said, and Spencer wasn't surprised. He hadn't even fooled Agent Pearce, who had known him – at that point – for about twenty-six hours. He took a deep breath. What was it she had said? That admitting that you needed help was the hardest part?

"I'm struggling," he said, softly.

There it was, out in the open. No going back now.

He looked at Gideon, wondering how his mentor would react.

The older man sighed.

"Well, anyone who'd been through what you've been through recently, would."

"This was all I was groomed for," said Reid, the words spilling out of him, unexpectedly. "I never even – I never even considered another option."

"Now you're questioning whether you're strong enough to be here," Gideon stated, glad that his young friend was finally opening up to him.

This wasn't what Spencer had expected at all, and he was grateful. Glad that he still had his team behind him.

He nodded.

"Yeah."

"I have been playin' at this job – in one way or another – for almost thirty years," said Gideon, gently. "I've felt lost, I've felt great, I have felt scared, sick… insane…" he shrugged. "I don't know. I think the day this job stops gnawing at your soul and your hands – your hands stop feelin' cold… maybe that's the time to leave."

Spencer nodded, understanding.

"I guess I just needed to figure out if I _could_ step away from this job," he said, quietly.

"And?"

He looked at Gideon feeling calmer and more determined than he had in months.

He _would_ get through this.

"I'll never miss another 'plane again."

Gideon nodded, and the two friends sat back to listen to Ethan's music, reassured.


	10. A Fresh Start

**Chapter 10 – A Fresh Start**

**Well, this is the end of the road for this fic – but fear not, crimefighters, there's more Agent Pearce to come. I'm having a week off for Samhain, but I'll be back the Friday after with the next story.**

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**Thanks again for reading :) Watch this space!**

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**Essential Listening: Hope on the Horizon, Megan Henwood**

0o0

She stepped out onto the hot tarmac, a little disorientated. They had left New Orleans in the small hours of the morning and touched down in DC at 10AM.

The flight had been fast, making the vast continent that she was supposed to be calling 'home' seem much smaller – cosier, somehow.

She had been pleased to see Dr Reid fall asleep on the jet, his long legs pulled up to his chest on the seat at the back, as if he was trying to make himself smaller.

He seemed more tranquil now, at peace with his problems and the struggle he had ahead of him, and she was glad.

He didn't need the hand that he'd been dealt.

Most of the other agents had dozed on the 'plane, too, despite Morgan's assertion that it wasn't like 'real' sleep.

Grace couldn't settle, though. Flying still made her a little uneasy, and she was unused to travelling in such a small and vulnerable craft. The excitement she had felt on first taking off nearly a week previously had begun to return as they raced across the sleeping county and she was eager for whatever was waiting for her beyond the tarmac of the airstrip: a new job, a new home.

A new life, full of promise.

Agent Morgan patted her on the back as he passed her.

"Long night, huh?" he said, heading for the S.U.V.s waiting for them at the end of the strip. "Better get used to it."

Recalling many nights patrolling the streets of London she simply smiled after him, getting used to things was part of being a copper.

"Hey," said Reid, falling into step beside her.

"Hey," she yawned. "Sorry."

"I just wanted to say thank you, again," he said, in a low voice. "For…"

"No problem," she said, with a smile.

"I meant what I said," he continued, earnestly. "If you ever need someone…"

"I'll keep it in mind," she said, easily. "How are you at moving furniture?"

The laughter burst out of him like spring rain, and he sped up, trailing after Morgan and shaking his head.

It was certainly going to be interesting, working at the B.A.U..

Her old phone buzzed in her pocket; she checked the number and frowned.

The word _'Nightingale'_ briefly flashed up on the screen and she hit ignore.

Turning her face into the wind she followed her new team down the airstrip.

A fresh start was exactly what she needed.


End file.
